Parallel
by xdeathberry
Summary: An AU slice-of-life series of oneshots contrasting the daily lives of John H. Watson and Sherlock Holmes as they grow up, eventually crossing paths and becoming the unstoppable duo we all know and love. Kid!John & Kid!Sherlock Rating subject to change
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**

**Chapter 1  
****Good Morning**

* * *

"Harriet, dear, would you mind waking your brother up?"

John blearily opened one eye and shut it slowly as he laid face down on his nice, fluffy pillow with his mouth slightly ajar. He didn't feel like getting up at all. He heard his sister loudly groan somewhere outside his door which was followed by footsteps that increased in volume as they approached the vicinity of his bedroom. He quickly tucked his head under his pillow in a futile effort to shut the noise out.

"John! Mum said to wake up!" Harriet shouted, pounding on the oak door. After making a small fuss, she left quickly, disinterested in discovering whether her dear brother really did wake up or not; after all, he was a big boy. He could take care of himself.

John ignored her and laid in his bed until his mother bounded into his bedroom (after knocking, of course) and demanded that he wash up for breakfast or he'll be late to school. He sat up in his bed and yawned, stretching his torso and arms as he reached upwards; his small, lithe body was heavy with slumber. He had fallen asleep very late again as his excitement had taken over when he was given the latest issue of the comic book he and his mates were obsessing over. John swung his legs over his bed, raised his eyebrows and blinked a few times, then proceeded to get up and get ready for another day of primary school.

The blond plopped down onto the empty seat unoccupied by the members of his family after washing up a bit and reached over to grab the jam, but he was too short to reach it.

"Harry, mind passing the jam?" he asked his sister.

Without looking up, she slid it across the table, ignoring him as she flipped through a magazine, uninterested in the daily life of her _dear _brother. His fingertips barely grazed the handle of the small pot Mrs. Watson had put the jam in; it was still too far. He let out a frustrated huff, cursed his height, and stood up to walk around the table to get it. As soon as he retrieved the strawberry deliciousness, he spread a bit of it on his toast and munched away as his mother handed him a nice hot cup of tea. Quite content, little John Watson smiled as he ate, ready to start another day of fun. Today was the day his class got a new pet. He was very excited as he had always wanted a pet at home, but his parents had never given him permission no matter how much he had begged and pleaded. It was always the same old excuse: "Pets will ruin the house, dear."

After finishing his breakfast, little John Hamish Watson went back to his room to change into his school clothes. His mother had laid them out while he was eating like she did every morning without fail.

"John, dear," his mother called from the kitchen, "it's a bit chilly today. Don't forget to wear the jumper I set out!"

* * *

"Mycroft, dear, wake up your brother, won't you?" Mrs. Holmes asked the young teenage boy who was sitting at the table, drinking tea and having a bit of toast. Mycroft sighed and took one last sip of the hot beverage before standing up and pushing the chair away from him as he headed towards his little brother's room.

"I wish Sherlock was as punctual as I am," the older Holmes muttered under his breath.

Mycroft walked down the dark hallway and stopped in front of the wooden door frame. "Sherlock, are you up?" he inquired as he rapped the door. He waited for a second but heard nothing. "Sherlock, time to wash up," he said. After pausing for a moment with his ear on the exterior of the door, he heard a slight rustling coming from within. Mycroft grabbed the doorknob and twisted, opening it. He raised his brow at the sight in front of him. Sherlock was hunched over in the middle of the floor clad in his blue pajamas, holding a flashlight and reading some book (if Mycroft were to gamble, he'd wager on another book on pirates). The young boy's unruly curly hair hung in front of his face as he sat bent over. "Sherlock!" Mycroft said a bit louder as he cleared his throat..

The younger Holmes didn't move an inch when his brother opened the door, nor when he called him and walked over, towering above his small body. The child's concentration was only shattered as a hand grasped his left arm and hoisted him up. Sherlock looked up at Mycroft who gasped in horror at the severe dark circles present under the child's eyes.

"Sherlock! Did you not go to bed last night?" Mycroft asked as he pulled Sherlock up into a standing position after tripping on several odd trinkets and gadgets littering his floor in order to reach him.

"What do you mean 'last night' Mycroft? It's still night," Sherlock replied without looking up as the teenager gave him a flabbergasted look; the little boy was attempting to read the next sentence as Mycroft was trying very hard not to manhandle him.

"Are you bloody serious? It's morning, time to wash up for school. How am I going to explain the bags under your eyes to mother? She'll be furious. She'll only blame me you know," Mycroft groaned. The curly haired boy merely ignored him and continued his attempt to finish reading the descriptions on the diagram.

"Shut up, Mycroft, you're ruining my concentration," Sherlock lazily commented. The older Holmes let out a big sigh. It was getting harder to make his little brother listen to him. Sometimes he could act like a normal little boy, but most of the time, he was rather unpleasant to strangers and occasionally Mycroft, which was clearly the case that morning.

"That's it, you're not going to school today," Mycroft decided as he lightly tossed Sherlock onto his bed and walked out. "Mum, Sherlock's feeling bit under the weather. I think he should stay home," the little boy heard Mycroft's voice taper off as he continued down the corridor from his room. Sherlock pulled his attention away, turned onto his side with his book in hand, and continued to read Tall Tales and Other Stories from the High Seas.

* * *

"John, John!" a little brune-haired boy bounded up to the blond as soon as he set foot in the classroom. "Guess what pet we got, John!" he cried.

John pursed his lips and squinted his eyes a bit and shifted them to the right. "Um.." he began, thinking about the possible list of animals his friend liked. It was impossible he'd get excited over a hamster or a chick and big animals like a cat and dog were out of the question. He wasn't really sure. "I dunno, mate. What is it?" he asked, clutching his small rucksack (backpack) over his thin shoulder.  
The boy grabbed John's arm as his rucksack slid to the floor next to his desk and led him away to the corner where the other children were huddled, fawning over the unknown animal.

"Let John see!" his friend called out to the crowd. Some of the children who had stood there for a while backed up enabling their classmate to get a good look. The teacher was nowhere to be found, so the children carried on, encircling the animal and pressing their faces against the steel bars of the cage.

John bent down a bit as he reached the front of the crowd; the other children quickly closed the gap he had left and fought to catch a glimpse. "It's a rabbit!" he exclaimed excitedly. The small white bunny was huddled in the right corner of its cage nibbling on a piece of carrot. "What an excellent idea for a pet! Has it got a name?" he asked, not particularly directing the question to anyone specific.

A girl standing to his right said, "I think its name is Fluffly, or at least it should be!" she giggled.

Suddenly, a loud crash was heard as someone in the back fell. The group's heads turned towards the commotion as John stood up and lightly shoved his way past the other school children. There on the floor laid the quiet lad whom no one ever really spoke to. John looked at him and quickly assessed the state of his injury; he had bumped his head on a corner of a desk when he fell and writhed on the floor clutching his head.

"William, what's wrong?" John asked as he pulled the boy's hands away from the back of his cranium. Blood. The students blanched at the sight, but John, undeterred, patted his pockets for a napkin or anything, but couldn't find one. He just took off his uniform jacket which he was wearing over his white knitted jumper and crumpled it up to the boy's head, trying to avoid any further movement to the boy's body at all costs.

"I s-slipped," William gasped out. John immediately shushed him.

"Don't move, don't move," he said as he held his classmate's head still with his hands. He had read a book somewhere once when he was bored that instructed what to do in case of a head injury emergency.

"Quick, someone get the nurse, now!" John pointed at the dark haired boy, Timothy, who had bounded over to him earlier that morning. "Go!" he ordered. Timothy, who had been standing behind his friend frozen in shock, quickly walked over to the infirmary. The blond held the jacket to the boy's head as William moaned. "Just a bit longer, don't you worry," John consoled the injured boy.

As soon as Timothy reached the doorway of the infirmary, he explained the situation to the nurse who immediately grabbed an ice pack and a clean cloth and ran after him towards the classroom. Upon entering the doorway, she took over from the child, peeled the jacket away from William, and examined the injury. She wrapped the cloth around the ice pack and held it to the boy's head.

"Thank goodness you acted quickly, John. I think he's going to need a couple stitches, and he probably has a concussion," the middle-aged nurse commented. "I think you'd make a fine doctor, someday," she praised him, smiling as John blushed.

* * *

Sherlock laid on his bed, bored out of his mind. Mycroft had already left to school as did his father to work. His mother had come in earlier and insisted he eat some breakfast; it was clearly visible that her son was not ill, but she had not questioned whether Sherlock was actually sick as she had learned that the boy was a bit...different than others. She knew her eldest son had a reason to tell her that Sherlock should miss school that day, and as much as she disapproved, she didn't push it. She felt like her youngest was disconnected from the family. Mycroft was the only one he would ever really speak to and her eccentric husband, Arthur, was never really around as his job occupied most of his time so Mrs. Holmes felt as if she were the only normal person in the household, and very alone.

The dark haired child stared up at the ceiling with his piercing iridescent gaze with his hands clutched behind his head as an additional pillow. He didn't feel like eating. Or reading. Or doing anything really. He was tired, but his mind was fully alert; he couldn't describe the strange feeling. It was almost as if his mind was itching, clawing at itself, but nothing he could do would stop it. There was never anything worth putting effort into as his interests never resided within the things normal children liked. Lately they were beginning to learn a bit about science at school. He found it absolutely fascinating while the other children groaned whenever his teacher announced it was time to change subjects to science. Sherlock became so enamoured, he ventured to the school's library to read up about the different branches of the subject. He wished the librarian would allow him to check out books about anatomy, but she told him that those types of books were for 'when he was older', whatever that meant.

He loathed school. It was boring and trivial. Oh, the things they taught! Absolutely ridiculous. He did not care for the solar system. After all, what good would it do to know the order of the planets? He did, however, enjoy the lessons on literature. His knowledge on fine literature was ever expanding, just like his voracious appetite for the knowledge of science. School was a cage; they told you what you needed to know and cluttered your mind with useless information. He liked being home. When he was home, he could do whatever he pleased; he could role play as a mighty pirate. They were fascinating people, always searching for treasure and unknown worlds. His desire for the answer, the truth was what drove his mind to the brink of obsession any time he was faced with an obstacle or challenge of some sort, just like a true pirate. He had begun to realize his talent for arriving to impeccably rational conclusions, just like Mycroft. Of course, he was only an amateur at he _was_ only eight years old, but in due time, he knew he could harness his sharp mind to do great things.

Sherlock shifted his leg and caught a glimpse of the black skull and crossbone pattern on his favorite blue pajamas. Death. Ah, now that was a subject worth thinking about. Death was, and would always be, something that would never frighten him. Life, was complicated. Death was simple. In life, there were many paths to be taken. In death, there was one. Mycroft had told him about the jobs of the Detective Inspectors when they had come across a crime scene that was blocked off with yellow tape a couple years ago. It seemed a bit fascinating, but the aspect of doing paperwork and having to work under someone was absolutely trite. The way his brother described it made them seem like they were professional puzzle solvers. Oh, that sounded glorious. Sherlock lived for puzzles, riddles, and challenges. He had a book of sudoku puzzles and riddles somewhere in his room for times he felt antsy stashed away amongst the ever increasing collection of scientific books and literature novels. His mother occasionally came in to chastise him about cleaning them up, but Sherlock did not like people touching his things. To please her, he had designated a spot where he was allowed to splay his things everywhere. Sherlock was no fool; life was give and take.

The dark-haired boy got up to wash up, but as soon as he returned to his room, he got back in bed. There was nothing to do. Boring. Boring. Bored. He stared at the ceiling again and continued to lie in silence until his body fell asleep.

* * *

John became the classroom hero that day. His teacher, Mrs. Wilson was absolutely horrified at the sight when she walked in moments after the nurse had reached their room. She was pregnant, so she frequently sought the bathroom and this morning was no exception. However, she heard panicking children when she was washing her hands and quickly exited, following the sound of the commotion to her own classroom.

The nurse had explained the situation and as soon as William's parents had been contacted and he was taken to receive professional medical care, the class had settled down. They began to tell John words of admiration; he was a true hero in their eyes. They were still children but they acknowledged and agreed that he definitely acted beyond their years. As a reward, John was allowed to be the first to take care of the bunny they had ultimately named 'Fluffy'.

When William was ushered away, John turned to his friend, Timothy. "Thanks, mate."

Timothy shook his head. "No, John, if it weren't for you, I probably wouldn't have done a thing," he said.

Utters of "Wow, John saved William's life!" echoed throughout the room, but John merely explained that he wasn't in any mortal danger, so that wasn't necessarily true. The crowd didn't buy it, and from then on, he was seen in a new light. No longer was he John H. Watson, the nice, polite blond boy. He was John H. Watson, the only brave child who knew what to do when someone was hurt, and in their books, that was definitely a reason to admire him. The rest of the day went on as normally as it could be, except for the looks of awe and whispers as word traveled around to the other kids at his school. Recess, particularly, was strange when hoards of children asked for him to relive the tale that had happened that morning.

"C'mon chap, give us a good ol' tale, will ya?" a large ginger-haired kid asked as many children surrounded them, hoping for a good story.

John raised his hands, almost in a defensive maneuver.

"Sorry, guys, but this is not something I'd like to go around talking about," he sheepishly smiled. He didn't think he did anything 'brave'. What he did was not brave, but was what a decent human being would do. Anyone could have, and certainly (if they had known what to do) would have done the same thing.

Timothy, who had seen the commotion from the other side of the playground, walked over and was bombarded with questions as he drew near the crowd.

"Alright, alright. I'll tell you lot if you'll just settle down and leave John alone," he stated. All their attention was shifted to the dark-haired lad as he recounted the tale of the courageous hero of Wilson's class who selflessly fought Death himself and snatched their dear WIlliam from the brink of its grip. John rolled his eyes as the crowd 'oohed' and 'ahhed' and walked away, choosing to join a group of boys in a small game of rugby.

As soon as John came home, he asked his mother if he could bring the rabbit home for the weekend to which she immediately absolutely refused to.

"Please, mother? Please?" John begged Mrs. Watson who merely shook her head.

"John, dear, why on earth would I agree to let you bring the rabbit home when I've told you numerous times that your father and I absolutely do not want any animals to run around the house?" his mother had asked. She dismissed him and continued to check her email as he sulked away and saw that John's teacher had sent her something. "What is this all about?" she said as she clicked on her inbox and opened the mail.

John sighed and retreated to his room. With a bit of effort due to his short nature, he climbed onto his bed and sprawled across it face down. He supposed taking care of Fluffy at school was okay too; he just wanted a nice friend to play with at home. I mean, yeah, he had plenty of mates at school and by any standard of measurement was considered a bit popular, but he felt very alone at times. He couldn't imagine why he felt the way he did, but he only hoped that one day, he would be able to find that one friend he could call his best mate.

Harriet, who had heard the conversation, popped her head in his doorframe.

"Oy, Johnny," he heard her call.

"What do you want, Harry," his muffled voice responded.

"I heard something today." John didn't answer her.

"Just wanted to say I'm proud of you," she stated before walking away. After a few moments, he heard another voice say his name.

"John," his mother called from the den, "it's just one weekend, right?" she asked as her smiled into the bedspread.

* * *

Sherlock had fallen asleep for few hours after he managed to get out of bed and wash up, but he had awoken to his grumbling stomach. He slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes as his book fell to the floor and turned towards his nightstand where his mother had left food earlier that morning. By now, it was terribly cold and a bit inedible, indicating that she had not entered the room to check up on him since. Sherlock ate it anyway. He took his time consuming the dampened toast and ice cold tea, not caring what he ate as long as his stomach was satiated. He got up just as he heard the muffled sound of the front door opening and closing. He heard his mother welcome her eldest son home from wherever he was and asked him to do something. After a short conversation with their mother, Mycroft walked past his younger brother's room and doubled back, opening the door and popping his head into view.

"Sherlock, get dressed. Mum told me to take you to buy a new jumper since it's been getting a bit chilly lately," he ordered. Sherlock groaned.

"I don't want to, Mycroft. Can't _you _just...go buy one? Or buy it online and send for it?"

Mycroft gave him a stern look. "No, Sherlock. Hurry up, I have work to do," he said. The older Holmes walked to his room, set his things down, and came right back. Ah. Just as he had suspected. His little brother hadn't moved at all. Mycroft rummaged around Sherlock's drawers and pulled out black trousers, a blue shirt, and black braces (suspenders).

"Dress. Now," he ordered.

"Whatever for? Can't I just throw on a jumper and go like this?" Sherlock asked, uninterested as he gestured towards his cotton pajamas. The skulls seemed to sneer, almost as if they were mocking the older Holmes.

"And pray tell, what would happen if you were to catch a cold?" Mycroft said as he leaned down and started unbuttoning his little brother's shirt. Sherlock frowned and tugged himself away. He gave up resisting and changed his clothes while Mycroft tidied his room up a bit.

"No! Don't touch that!" Sherlock reached a hand out and startled Mycroft as he bent down to pick up what looked like petri dishes with something weird growing in them. "It's an experiment," he explained.

Mycroft stared at it. "Sherlock, where did you get these petri dishes? Actually, when did you become interested in science?" he asked. He heard no reply. Mycroft sighed. "When you're done, put them back in the school's equipment storage," he told him, assuming that was the only rational place he could have gotten them from.

"I merely borrowed them, brother. Don't get your knickers in a twist," Sherlock muttered as he struggled to button up the shirt Mycroft had laid out.

Mycroft made Sherlock hold his right hand and held a black umbrella over their heads with his left as they walked down the street. It was a rainy day, but that didn't deter the people from venturing outside. If he had let Sherlock walk as he pleased, he surely would have wandered off somewhere and gotten lost in the crowd, so he forced the boy to hold his hand. He continued to eye several stores, attempting to find one that sold children's clothes. His dear mother had neglected to tell him where she usually shopped at. They were about to walk past a music store when a man exited the shop and the bell atop the door tinkled as it was pushed outwards. A sweet melody flowed out behind him and unto the streets. Sherlock stopped, forcing Mycroft to come to a halt when he felt a small tug on his right arm.

"Mycroft, hurry. In here!" Sherlock pulled his brother's hand and entered the store, letting go once they entered. The hood of his yellow raincoat fell off his head as he ran towards the sound coming from somewhere within the music was encompassing Sherlock, caressing his mind and gently soothing it. The feeling was so strange, but in a good way. The dark-haired boy followed the music all the way to the back of the store as his brother clumsily followed, halting for a moment at the entrance to shake off the excess rain water from the umbrella; a man was standing in the corner playing some sort of instrument. The melody was wonderful. The sound, oh the sound was absolutely amazing. "Mycroft, what is that?" Sherlock asked when the teen caught up to him.

"Sherlock, I almost lost you," the older boy said, clearly annoyed. He looked at what the younger Holmes was pointing at. "Oh, that's a violin. A wooden instrument played with a bow made out of horse hair," he explained.

Sherlock stared, fascinated by the notes coming from the instrument.

"Right then, come along now. I think I spotted a nice store over by the corner of the street. We need to be home quickly before we're late for dinner and mother throws a fit..." Mycroft rambled on as he ushered the child who stood directly in front the man, unbeknownst to him, who continued to play the violin with his eyes closed. Sherlock ignored Mycroft's words and threw one last glance over his shoulder as the teen grabbed Sherlock's left hand and began to walk away.

* * *

Author's Note:  
Hello, hello!  
I have written a sort of experimental prequel oneshot called "Freak" (solely about Sherlock though) that you are more than welcome to read, but don't have to.

Have you guys noticed the subtle inside jokes and canon references? haha  
Mycroft Holmes was smarter than Sherlock in the original series; he just didn't like doing the legwork to explain his conclusions.  
Wilson : that's definitely a House MD reference (it is based on Sherlock Holmes, if you can't tell or don't know)  
I've also added quirks I've picked up from the BBC version's actors. Martin purses his lips sometimes when John thinks. haha Cute.  
Also, in canon, Watson played rugby, so I just had to put that detail in there.

Mr. Holmes' first name is Arthur in my story. Care to guess why?  
You probably caught it. :)

Anyway, I've decided to approach this in a 'slice of life' kind of way, switching between the two, showing their lives unfolding.  
If you dislike that, feel free to make suggestions.  
I also can't decide if I should write ahead or post as I write.

Also, if this is ridiculously long, please say so. Lol  
It's a little over 4k words; I don't really have a feel for how long or short things on because, simply, I haven't really written much of anything on here.

The rating may be subject to change because we all know how Sherlock can be.  
Thank you for reading! And stay tuned for more chapters!


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**  
**Chapter 2**

**Careful**

* * *

It was Saturday. The weekend.

Sherlock sat hunched over in a worn armchair in the corner of his bedroom. His feet were up on the cushion and his hands were placed together with the tips of his index fingers pressed against his small, pursed lips.

Mycroft was apparently out with his friends, so there was nothing to do but to sit and wait for him to come home. He really wanted to return to that store he stumbled into when Mycroft had forced him to buy a jumper in that ghastly weather at his dear mother's request. He much rather preferred a coat, yes. He had taken one of his father's scarves to wear, but it was much too big on his small frame. He had to make do with the purple jumper Mycroft had chosen for him. However, his father's scarf was useful when he was role playing as a pirate. He wore it as a sort of turban.

Excellent length for that.

Here he was, sitting in his dark room, being forced to wait for his dear brother to venture home, whenever that was. Oh, the woes of being a small child. He could not do anything he desired without someone breathing down his neck. His mother had seen his attempt to leave and threw a fit, saying how a string of kidnappings was occurring around the city and her son, supposedly very intelligent, was walking right into their arms.

Why can't you behave like a normal child, she said. Body language was just screaming frustration. Hm. Obviously something was bothering her today. Sherlock didn't know what though (why he didn't know was because he was much too young to understand). That and the annoying librarian refused to let him borrow books on higher levels than what he was "supposed to be learning". Her words, not his.

Mothers were absolutely overbearing. His mother definitely matched that description on the rare occurrences she actually spoke to him. Sherlock couldn't see why his parents didn't just ship him off to boarding school. No, no. They much rather preferred smothering him with Mycroft. The dark haired child knew his mother favored his older brother and knew she put him up to monitoring Sherlock's every move. Oh, she loved Mycroft more, probably because he was normal. Well, not average normal, but normal compared to Sherlock.

But normal was dull. Boring. Average. Sub par. Like those children he was being forced to call schoolmates. His mind felt as if it had rot every time they opened their stupid little mouths.

The younger Holmes suddenly jumped up from the chair.  
He had to get out. Leave. His mind was beginning to claw at itself again and the only remedy he had come across was the violin music that haunted his dreams.

Sherlock rolled up the sleeves of his purple knitted jumper as well the sleeves of the white collared shirt beneath it that his brother had dressed him up in earlier that morning and held up his ear in the direction of the kitchen. His mother should be in there. No sound. Which meant either she was sitting, or not in the kitchen. He'd have to pass it to get to the front door. He silently walked out and peered around the corner; no, as he suspected. She was gone. Possibly preoccupied with something else. Or perhaps she left. Yes, her keys missing as well as her purse. He quickly strode towards the door and walked out, closing it shut very quietly behind him.

* * *

John was having a pleasant day; well, pleasant enough. Harriet was bothering him, as always. He had brought the class pet, Fluffy, home that weekend and the two Watson siblings were entirely too excited. Harry, of course, became utterly smitten at the moment she laid eyes on the furry creature.

"Oh, Johnny! It's so adorable!" she cried as her mother brought the cage in from the dingy black cab that was parked outside the house. She trailed her mother's heels as the woman carried it into her son's room and set it down in the corner.

"Now, John, I will only say this once. This rabbit will not leave its cage, do you understand?" Mrs. Watson sternly told the child who had followed behind Harriet.

"Yes, mother," the little boy said as his mother stood up and patted out her dress.

"Good. Now wash up before you two play. You too, Harriet," she said as she walked out the door. John and Harriet obeyed, rushing out the door and subsequently fighting for dominance over the sink due to their excitement to return to the white rabbit as soon as possible; the rabbit which was nibbling away at a piece of lettuce in John's room, blissfully unaware of its surroundings.

"Harry, stop shoving," John complained as they rushed back and peered down into the cage. The small creature stood still; only its mouth moved as it masticated its food, staring at the two strange creatures hovering above its small figure.

"Do you think we could teach it some tricks?" his sister asked as they sat for a good solid minute, just observing the bunny.

John shrugged. "I don't think rabbits can learn tricks. I haven't heard anything like it," he answered. Harry reached out an arm and clasped the small latch with her fingers.

"What are you doing?" John exclaimed. "Mother said not to take it out!" he said worriedly.

"Oh, bother. What she doesn't know won't hurt her, now, will it John?" his sister simply said as she pulled the latch. The rabbit refused to move from its nice, comfortable position. Water, food, and a space to sleep. What more would a bunny ask for? Harriet promptly attempted to coax it out.

"Here, Fluffy, Fluffy," she said, grabbing a piece of lettuce and dangling it in front of the creature's face. "Come get the nice crunchy leaf."

"Harriet, I think you should leave it be," John frowned as she merely ignored him.

"C'mon, John. Live a little, will you?" she teased. Suddenly, Fluffy made a little hop towards the girl's hand, obviously hungry for more lettuce. Harry let out a tiny squeak and moved her hand backwards which the rabbit promptly followed. John watched, conflicted between his feelings of obeying his mother and his desire to play with the rabbit.

Perhaps just this once was okay. Then in the cage it stays for the weekend, he thought.

* * *

Sherlock stood on the edge of the curb, attempting to hail a cab. His small frame made it impossible to catch the eye of a cabbie, but after many minutes of waiting and trying again, Sherlock managed to flag one down. It came to a stop next to the young boy and the window slowly rolled down.

"Say lad, are you alone?" a man of about thirty asked him. "It's not safe going about the city by yourself, especially with all the kidnappings and all," he continued.

"If it's money you're worried about, I have it," Sherlock dryly answered. He struggled to open the door but managed to swing it open and proceeded to climb in. Once he shut it, the dark-haired man looked at the child through his rearview mirror as Sherlock dusted off his black trousers. "Tottenham Court Road, please," he said.

"I'm still not sure it'd be safe driving a lad like you around all by your lonesome," the cabbie frowned as he turned away from the curb and began his route. He was initially going to choose to abstain his services, but the man took it upon himself to make sure the strange child he picked up was safe. He felt it would be a gamble, not to mention extremely irresponsible, if he refused drive the lad and some other untrustworthy stranger did. Or worse yet, the kidnappers running loose in the city. The dark-haired child glanced up at the man through the rearview mirror and gave him a short, small smile which quickly dissipated as he turned away and looked out the window. The sky was extremely grey, but it wasn't raining yet. It was humid, as usual, and the people went about their way, bustling up and down the streets. Sherlock saw his reflection in the window for a second, but shifted his eyes and continued to stare out the window past the image of his own face.

John held Fluffy in his tiny hands, laughing as it scrunched its nose and sneezed. How he wanted a pet! Harry stroked the furry little animal's head as John placed it on the rug. It snuggled up to his hand and immediately placed a smile on the blonde's face.

"It's absolutely adorable," his sister sighed. "I wish mum and dad weren't so uptight all thetime," she said with a grimace.

"I suppose they have their reasons," John replied, not really paying attention to what his sibling was saying. The rabbit had retrieved the lettuce from the floor and sat there, nibbling away. Honestly, John wanted a nice friend more than a pet, but for some reason, it was hard to connect with people. He was social, yes, but the other children just didn't...understand him. Or excite him. It was the same boring thing over and over again. Comic books, stories, playing games. His life was boring and he didn't like that one bit. He was afraid to speak his sentiments about the William event out of fear of himself. He had found tending to the poor boy was rather exhilarating. A surge of adrenaline pumped throughout his body as he set into action and did what the other children could not.

He sighed. It was a dreary day and he didn't feel like he had a lot of energy to do anything. All he wanted to do was to play with Fluffy and not think about anything. He and his sister played in silence. The only noises heard were the slight crunching noises coming from the rabbit's mouth.

"Harry," John suddenly said, "do you ever, you know, think about the future? Like what you want to be when you grow up?" He continued to absentmindedly stroke the animal's body while his sister was preoccupied with the head.

Harriet laughed. "What's gotten into you, John?" she asked. "No way. Things like that is too much to think about. Way into the future. But I say whatever I'm gonna be, I'm probably gonna be bloody good at it," she said.

John said nothing as they continued to pet Fluffy.

* * *

"Here you are," the cabbie said as he stopped at the curb in front of the store Sherlock instructed him to and turned his upper body towards the backseat. "Now, I don't usually do this, but I'm going to sit here and wait for you. I'll take you right back home; the streets aren't safe, you know," he explained.

Sherlock really didn't care what the cabbie did, so he merely nodded and got out of the black car after tossing him a few notes from a small pouch he had taken from Mycroft's room. His brother really needed to learn how to pick safe hiding places. Sherock stepped out onto the pavement and looked up at the store he and Mycroft had visited earlier. He walked up to the red door and pulled the handle, setting off the familiar small bell atop the door which tinkled, alerting the owner to his presence.

He had thought the store was a music store, but he now realized it was actually a brokerage; it just happened to have a lot more musical instruments, making it look like a music store. The shop was absolutely devoid of people. Not a single soul was inside. The younger Holmes sibling peered his head around the corner of the counter at the front of the store and decided to walk right in and to the place where he found the violin player the other day. Wherever the owner was, he probably wouldn't mind.

It was amazing. There were rows and rows of violins and trinkets, displayed atop counters, in clear glass boxes, and on the walls. His small frame seemed more dwarfed, if that were even possible, by the sheer height of the aisles he walked through. There, in the corner stood a very large instrument that looked like a violin, but it clearly was not. His eyes darted across every single instrument in his sight, his excitement growing as he laid his eyes upon another. On a dark red velvet cushion sat a beautiful dark reddish brown violin that immediately caught his eye as he walked along the wall. It was enclosed in a glass case, locked away in the corner, barred from human touch.

Sherlock walked up to it, hands behind his back, and read the silver plaque beneath the case. "Stradivarius," he quietly read aloud. He had heard that name somewhere before, most likely in his excessive reading.

"I see you've taken a fancy to the Stradivarius, son, haven't you?" A voice said from behind. Sherlock turned around and immediately recognized the middle-aged man with the curliest dark hair he had ever seen, which was saying something because his own curls were rather unruly. The stranger took off his glasses and cleaned the circular lenses with a white handkerchief he had taken out of his pocket. He put them back on his face and smiled at the child standing before him. The Jewish man was the same stranger who played the violin melody that haunted Sherlock's mind, awake or asleep.

* * *

John awoke with a start as a loud crack shot across the sky and rumbled throughout the framework of the house. He slowly looked around, a bit disconcerted, and saw that he was lying on the floor of his room; Harry was gone, but so was the rabbit and its cage. He hadn't even realized he fell asleep. Rubbing his eyes, the blond boy yawned and sat up. He sat still for a moment on the rug, allowing his brain to get a sense of what was going on. Rain pattered away at the window behind him.

"Harry," he called out hoarsely.

No response.

"Harriet," he repeated after clearing his throat as he stood up from the ground and headed towards his sister's room. By now, it was very late in the evening and the light coming in through the house was dim. His whole house was dark. Where were his mother and father? Harriet? He slowly walked down the pitch black hallway, fumbling around the sides. Perhaps his father was still at work, but that still did not answer his mother's and sister's whereabouts. The wind howled as he groped the wall, leaning on his tiptoes, and felt a switch. He flipped it. The lights did not turn on.

"Excellent," he muttered as he futilely attempted to flip the switch again. The power was out and he had no idea where his family was. How could they leave a child home alone in the dark?

John continued down the hallway, sliding against the wall in an effort not to bump into things and reached his sister's bedroom. Lightning lit up the room for a brief moment, enabling John to see Fluffy standing still in its cage. The child rolled his eyes and went over to pick up the cage. His sister _would_ take his class pet and put it in her room. He hoisted it up and struggled down the corridor as another crack of thunder belted across the sky and shook his being. It also didn't help that the rabbit continuously hopped back and forth across its dwelling, disrupting the balance John had achieved while carrying it.

"Stay still, won't you?" he said aloud. He knew it would make no difference, but the silence of the house was unsettling. The rabbit was nervous, unknowingly reflecting John's sentiments. He reached his room and set the cage back onto the carpet where it was earlier and dusted his hands. He opened the top drawer of the night table next to his bed and retrieved the small torch (flashlight) he used when he read his comics late at night after his parents put him to bed.

"Now then," he said after turning it on. "I should probably call-nope. Power's down. What to do, what to do," he thought aloud. "That's right. Candles. Should have plenty in the kitchen. Stay here, Fluffy," the boy told the rabbit. He smiled at his silliness and took a moment to collect his courage. It was extremely dark and the volume of the wind's howling was increasing by the minute. He shook out his hands and hopped a bit from foot to foot. "Just a storm, just a storm," he said to himself. He took one last quick glance at the rabbit and headed out the bedroom door.

* * *

Sherlock shifted his eyes back onto the violin. "Stradivarius?" he said. The Jewish man nodded his head as a crack of thunder whipped the sky.

"Yes, one of the finest makes ever to be created. Would you like to see it?" he said as he reached into his right pants pocket to retrieve a large set of keys bound by a large metal ring. He meticulously stared at them, sorting them out until he remembered which key belonged to the lock. It was a thin, cylindrical silver key with two protruding horizontal rectangles for the teeth, complete with an interesting embellishment at the handle where it looped onto the keyring. Sherlock noted that it was quite shiny, indicating that it was polished regularly, meaning the thing the key opened held a lot of sentimental value of some sort. He assumed this particular violin was the one the owner played the time he had dragged Mycroft in to see where the music originated from.

"What's your name, lad?" the Jewish man asked as he pushed the key inside the lock and turned. It made a satisfying click as it opened.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock simply answered.

The older man nodded and replied, "You may call me Shiri, Mr. Holmes." Shiri placed his fingers on the top part of the case and pulled, swinging the front part away. He gently grabbed the instrument and its bow and held it out to the little boy standing in front of him. Sherlock's eyes widened a bit as he grasped the priceless artifact in his hands.

"Go on, give it a try," the broker smiled and gestured. "Pluck it."

The dark-haired child hesitated for a moment before lifting his right hand and plucked at the strings. It made such a wonderful noise! He did it again and strummed it, reveling in the high quality of sound. Shiri handed him the bow and correctly positioned it in Sherlock's tiny hand. He moved the violin to the boy's shoulder and told him to rest his chin on it, adjusting the boy's posture and describing where to put his fingers.

"Now, take the bow and quickly run it across the strings in a downward position," he instructed, demonstrating in the air. He proceeded to guide Sherlock's hand and arm. As soon as the bow hit the violin and created a note, Sherlock knew he wanted to learn how to play. He had read somewhere that playing a musical instrument stimulated the mind as well as enabling the creative processes to develop. Such a wonderful sound! That reason alone was enough to convince himself to devote a part of his precious time to learn.

"This particular violin," Shiri began, "is one of my favorites. I tend to play it from time to time, but if you'd like, I could teach you how to play."

The boy's eyes lit up, but squinted slightly, untrusting of the man's so called 'pure intentions'. "That is extremely generous of you. And pray tell, sir, what would you like in return?" Sherlock asked getting a bit excited, but he knew that everything in life was give and take; you could not have anything for free.

The old man sadly gave a small smile. "You remind me of my grandson, young Sherlock. He was once very eager to learn the violin as you seem to be." He turned his head away, not answering the question, and looked out the large window at the opposite end of the store. The grey sky reflected in his glasses.

His grandson passed away, Sherlock rationalized. He had seen the small locket the man wore around his neck. There were old pictures of a young woman and presumably her son set in frames that stood on a shelf behind the counter at the front of the store. However, there were more pictures of the woman getting older, but none of the boy. It looked as if the child had died around ten years old, give or take a few years as the majority of the pictures that were taken of him portrayed him as a young lad and nothing older. He simply disappeared from the more recent pictures. Instead, there was a large portrait that hung on the wall.

"If the time comes," Shiri continued, "you may purchase this particular violin if you wish. I have not chosen to sell it in the past, but I think it's time to move on."

Sherlock did not know what to say. Sorry for your loss? That phrase seemed so contrite, almost as if the sayer attempted to acknowledge the fact that they understand the immensity of the other's pain and that their small bout of pitiness could placate them, but that was a lie.

"Yes, I shall," he finally answered as the bell above the door tinkled at the front of the shoppe as a customer barged in rather urgently, a thunderous roar ringing through the skies simultaneously.

* * *

John attempted to control his heavy breath, gripping the torch (flashlight) tightly with both hands. He had never realized how terrifying his house was at night. His mother had told him about a series of kidnappings and burglaries going on across in various cities across the country and of all the times he could have possibly recollected this bit of information, it was now when he was alone at home in the dark with nothing but a harmless creature to protect him. He slowly moved forward into the ominous hallway, leaving Fluffy behind as he began his journey towards the kitchen. Suddenly, a large crack was heard in the sky followed by deep rumbling. John jumped and ran in the general direction of the kitchen and quickly pulled open the drawers next to the refrigerator.

He fumbled around with both hands, awkwardly holding the torch between his chin and the top of the drawers he had opened. "Where are you," John said quietly, shuffling the junk around. He was a bit shorter than the drawer, so he had to rely on his sense of touch to find it. He felt around and touched a box of matches and immediately pocketed it. The candles were missing. Perhaps his mother had taken them out in anticipation for the storm? He closed the drawer and pointed his torch around, wildly searching for the few candles they owned. They were nowhere to be found in the kitchen, so John headed towards the living room and saw them placed nonchalantly on the coffee table. He swiped the match and lit the three candles which created an eery soft glow. The blond shuddered and fumbled his way back to this room to grab a blanket and Fluffy's cage for accompany while he waited for his family to venture back.

John sat down and spread the blanket on the floor, folding part of it his over his legs. He opened the cage and let the rabbit out between his thighs in order to create a small barrier to hold the rabbit in.

"Funny night it's been, yeah?" he asked the animal. "I wish you could talk, you know," he continued as he stroked the white creature's fur. "I wish I was born before Harry. It's always about Harry around here. Harriet this, Harriet that. Sometimes it's like I don't exist," he sighed.

"I wonder how it would feel to be an only child," John wondered. "I do love her, no doubt about that. Yes, don't get me wrong, but it's just, I feel like I'm living in her shadow. She even took you from my room and put it in hers!" John immediately stopped talking as he heard a small noise. It sounded like someone was trying to turn the doorknob at the front door. "Father's here!" he thought. He scooped Fluffy up and grabbed the torch, walking towards the door. The knob continued to jiggle and additional sounds were heard, almost like metal clanking against the handle. No, it wasn't a key...

Someone was trying to break in! John panicked and peered through the side windows next to the door.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's voice was heard from the entrance. Shiri looked at the younger Holmes who merely rolled his eyes and lowered the violin and bow. He handed it to the man.

"That obnoxious wailing is, unfortunately, my brother. I will be going now," he said monotonously.

The old man smiled and said, "You are welcome to come by any time!" Sherlock gave a nod and walked towards his still-yelling brother, the shoppe owner following close behind.  
"Sherlock, come here this instant!"

The dark haired boy rounded the corner and saw his brother standing in front of the door, gripping the handle of an umbrella.

"Now, brother, it's not nice to drip water all over the floor," he said to annoy the teenager. Mycroft grabbed his hand and pulled him over to the door. "Thank you for taking care of my brother, but we really must be getting along now," he said to Shiri.

The Jewish man clasped his hands. "It was absolutely no problem. He was a delight and is welcome here any time he likes."

Mycroft raised a brow. "This boy, here," he raised their intertwined hands, "this, this, this particular boy, you said, was a _delight_?" he said with exasperation, emphasizing each repetition of 'this' by jabbing the air with their hands. He raised both eyebrows and gave a scoff of unbelief. "What a miracle," he muttered under his breath. "Well, in any case, we must be going. He needs to eat because I doubt he's eaten anything all day. Good day to you, sir," the older Holmes nodded as he opened the door, setting off the tinkling bell, and opened up his umbrella outside.

"That cab's mine, Mycroft," Sherlock pointed at the driver who had dropped him off earlier.

"Then let's get going," he said sternly, walking over and opening the door and climbing in as the driver gave his sincere gratitude at the fact that his little client was safe and sound now that his older brother was here.

* * *

It was much too dark outside to clearly discern who the figure was. The window was also being hit with rain which further obstructed his view. The height of the man was too short to be his father, bending over or not. The power was out so calling for help was out of the question. Or his parents. Where was his father? The stranger continued to fight with the door, attempting to unlock it.

John gripped Fluffy tighter as he almost slipped out of his grasp. He began to panic again and decided it would be best to hide should the stranger open the door at any moment. He quietly tiptoed away and quickly walked to his room, burrowing under clothes thrown on the ground of his closet.

"Shh, Fluffy, shh, stop, stop it," John attempted to coax the rabbit which was attempting to wriggle its way out of his grip. Even with his efforts, he lost his grip and Fluffy scampered away and out the closet door. "Ughhh!" he get out an exasperated sigh and hit his palm to his forehead.

John was scared the rabbit would ruin his mother's furniture, so he had no choice but to go after it. After all, she explicitly told him not to take Fluffly out of his cage.

He quietly crept down the hall. "Fluffy!" he whispered. It was no use calling the rabbit. He shut off the torch when he became close to the front door when suddenly, he heard a loud click and the man outside proceeded to open the door. John ran towards the door, gripping the torch, and swung it open, prepared to attack the stranger with his torch when he stopped his arm midswing.

His mother, sister, and a man who clearly had 'Locksmith William' written on a patch on the left part of his work uniform stared in shock at the little blond boy.

"John! What on earth are you doing?" his mother asked, gripping two bags of ingredients for dinner. John merely blinked while Harry, shock wearing off, began to snicker. Mrs. Watson shoved him inside and pulled out money for the man who nodded and left before turning around to face her son.

"That, young man, was entirely unsafe! Why did you think facing a potential robber alone, with a torch none the less, would be the safest route?" His mother bent down and fussed over him, making sure he wasn't hurt while Harriet walked over to the candles.

"Uh...mum...the cage is empty," she mentioned as she spotted Fluffy's empty cage.  
John smiled sheepishly at his mother who noticed the absence of the rabbit in his arms and sighed as she shook her head. "Well, get to it then," she ordered.

* * *

Sherlock sighed. He foolishly hoped Mycroft would allow them to ride in silence, but through the entire duration of the ride, Mycroft was lecturing him about how worried sick their mother was when she came back from food shopping and found her younger son missing. Luckily the cabbie said nothing and just did his job.

"Irresponsibly selfish, you are. Why on earth did you think that would be a safe thing to do, especially with the kidnappings? You could have just waited for me, you know. Sherlock, look at me when I'm talking to you," he said angrily to his younger brother. "And where did you even get the money to take a cab?"

Sherlock wordlessly pulled out Mycroft's pouch from his pocket and handed it him without even turning his head to look at him, choosing instead to continue leaning on his left palm and stare out the dark window.  
The older Holmes gaped. "That's my money! Sherlock, how did you find it?"

"No one reads 'The Governmental Authority' as much as you do claim you do. You always pull it out and put it back in the shelf. Why else would you do that if not to hide something in its pages? You don't even need to read it since you always know everything anyway," he added dryly.

Mycroft sighed. "Next time, Sherlock, just wait for me becau-"

"-he said he'll give me violin lessons," Sherlock interjected.

The teenager raised his brows in surprise. "And, you want to learn?" he cautiously asked his brother. Rain continued to hit the windshield at a relentless pace, forcing the cabbie to go rather slowly. After a moment's pause, the younger Holmes nodded.

Mycroft said nothing, instead, involuntarily choosing to smile the rest of the way home. His brother, perhaps, had finally found something that he could identify with.

* * *

Holy crap guys.  
I'm seriously honestly sorry for the really really late update. LOL  
Honestly...I actually...kind..of forgot about this. HAHAH  
I'm not used to a schedule of writing. I'll try my best to be better on updates.

Hope you enjoy this! I went a little silly at times, but they're kids.

Thank you for reading! :D


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel  
****Chapter 3**

**Alone**

* * *

The classroom was quiet and absolutely empty. It was just the way Sherlock liked it. He had snuck back into the building while the other children were outside enjoying their recess on the playground. It was definitely not Sherlock's cup of tea to prance around with a bunch of obnoxious schoolmates; he much rather preferred to sit alone and read.

He had finally nicked the book he had been itching to read right under the librarian's nose. Earlier that morning, Sherlock had grabbed the book along with several illustrated books that were "appropriate for children of his age" according to the librarian, and placed it by his feet while Mrs. Wimbleton scanned the rest of his books. When she handed them over after repeatedly telling him the due date, he "accidentally" dropped them on the floor and picked them right back up, hiding the anatomy book within the others.

A few days before, he went on his brother's computer at home and learned how to take the magnetic strip off. Of course, his brother's computer was password protected, but it only took a genius, which he happened to be, to figure it out. He scoffed as he typed in the characters for 'str4wb3rrysh0rtc4k3" (Mycroft definitely needed a stronger password. Now that he thought about it, anybody could have guessed correctly if they only knew Mycroft Holmes for a mere sixty seconds) Sherlock walked out of the room with absolute success. The alarm didn't trip nor did anyone notice he was carrying an extra book. He smirked as he slowly walked away back to his classroom, Mrs. Wimbleton none the wiser.

* * *

John yawned and stretched, revelling in the sun's rays as the other children bustled around him as they pooled out of the doors. He was pretty tired from lack of sleep, but he was glad for the break in studying. He hadn't been paying much attention and Mrs. Wilson was about to call on him when she realized it was time for recess.

"Hey, John, let's play rugby today!" Nathan, one of his classmates yelled from the other side of the field. The blond turned his head towards the voice and saw a group of his male classmates gathering around the skinny dark haired child who held the ball and was currently waving his other arm at John.

"Okay, give me a minute!' John called back. He straightened out his clothes which had begun to rise up over his stomach due to his stretching even though really, his shirt was supposed to be tucked into his trousers, and then sprinted over towards the boys. Nathan had called captain and appointed John as the other, not surprisingly as John was oddly popular with his classmates. He had no idea why, but not only did the male children seek his companionship, but so did the females. The entire William fiasco had only added fuel to the fire, but John, as sought after as he was, felt even more alone for some reason.

As soon as the teams were settled, they began to play a not-so-rough game of rugby as some of the other children watched.

* * *

Two rambunctious boys loudly thundered down the hallway and into the classroom where Sherlock was currently situated in. Without even looking, he knew who they were due to the obnoxious nature of their loud voices. It was the pug looking boy and the ginger. He had no patience to learn their names, so he never did.

"Well, well, well. Lookie what we have here, Tom. It's the freak, whatshisname," the pug-looking boy said as the ginger snickered. Sherlock didn't move a muscle. He ignored them and continued to read A Guide to Anatomy which was hidden underneath some picture book he had borrowed about a rabbit or something of the sort out of precaution. He was sure his teacher would be suspicious if she happened to catch a glimpse of what he was reading as the librarian was notorious for being strict, so there was no possible way she would have allowed Sherlock to read that particular book, none the less borrow it.

The other kid, Tom, apparently, suddenly grabbed the books out of Sherlock's hands. "Hey, look at us while we're talkin' to you," he said. Sherlock stared at his empty hands and slightly grit his teeth. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them, turning his head to face the two boys.

"Why must you insist on grabbing personal objects out of others' hands?" Sherlock asked. The two boys stood there in silence for a split second before looking at each other and laughing so hard, the pug-haired boy had to grip the side of a nearby desk to keep from collapsing.

"This, this freak! Lookit the way he talks, Tim!" he gasped between peals of laughter. Sherlock scoffed. Tim and Tom. Befitting to this particular pair of idiots. The younger Holmes did nothing and stared straight ahead, already bored, waiting for the dimwits to give him his book back.

"If you don't mind, I'd much rather be getting back to my reading," the curly haired boy bluntly stated. After the laughter died down, Tim flipped the books over and looked at the anatomy book Sherlock was in the middle of browsing through. His eyes widened and he nudged his companion in the ribs.

* * *

John panted as he bent over with his hands on his knees, extremely glad his mates had called half-time. All the boys were a bit dehydrated so they decided to call a time out, after which they all (except John) immediately scrambled across the field towards the drinking fountain in order to beat each other to it.

"Wow, John, you're great at rugby!" William, who was watching on the sidelines with a group of other children, complimented as he walked up to John.

John tilted his held slightly upwards, still bent over in order to catch his breath. "Thanks. You should play too. The more the merrier," he replied.  
William shook his head. "Nah, I'm not very athletic. I prefer watching. Also, the doctor's orders. No physical activity until I'm 100%," he smiled.

"Pity," John said as he watched his friends either walking back over towards the field or shoving each other in the line they had formed. "Ooh, hold that thought. I'm gonna get a bit of water," he quickly said as his classmate nodded. John quickly walked across the field to the other side where the drinking fountain was located and waited to gulp a huge amount of water (ahh, nectar of the gods to one so dehydrated as he was!) before turning back around, wiping his mouth with his hand. Directly ahead of him, he saw two older boys talking with William and thought nothing of it until the larger of the two gave a slight shove to his friend's shoulder. He squinted but couldn't quite make out their conversation by lip reading as they were too far away, but he knew something was going on that shouldn't be happening.

"William!" John called as he casually jogged towards the trio. All three of the children looked towards John's general direction, trailing him with their eyes as he approached them.

The boy who had shoved William raised an eyebrow as John subtly inserted himself between the two, guarding him from physical harm.

"So, Will, want to introduce me to your, uh, friends?" he asked crossing his arms and jutting his chin ever so slightly outwards to give himself a bit of a presence. What he lacked in height, he made up with bravery. Perhaps sometimes he would lean on the side of stupidity instead of bravery, but he didn't care.

"Hah, look at this bugger, Nick. Aw, does wittle William need Mummy Johnny here to pwotect him?" he taunted.

John gave a short scoff and turned his head to the left, quickly licking his lips out of habit. He faced back towards the two boys and retorted, "Same to you. Why do you need backup, Nick? Clearly William's the weaker one. Injured, in fact. So why do you insist on James tagging along? Need _your _Mummy James?"

Nick's face turned slightly red out of anger. "What, you think you're the big man now, don't you, Watson?" He was about to hit him when the other boy behind him grabbed his arm.

"Ah, there we are," John said, glancing at James's action. Nick lost control and yanked his arm out of his friend's grip and hurled a punch straight into the blond's nose.

* * *

The two boys stared at the page before them. When they had grabbed it from Sherlock's grip, the page had accidentally turned to the introduction of the female reproductive system. "Disgusting," Tim slowly said, a bit fascinated and a bit disturbed. "You're such a freak, Holmes!"

Sherlock was fed up and annoyed. Obviously these two pea-brains didn't understand nature. Nothing disturbed Sherlock because everything was a part of life. A part of science.

"I bet your mum thinks you're a freak too," Tom, the other child chimed in.

The younger Holmes looked at them up and down. "I can play this game. Tom, is it? You might want to ask your mum who your father is," he stated.  
The child before him furrowed his brows. "What are you talking about, you ponce?"

"You're colourblind," he replied.  
"How'd you know that?" the ginger asked. "And whatsit to you?"

Sherlock sighed. He hated having to explain himself. Why wouldn't they just _see_? "Simply an observation. When we do art you're either extremely inept with colour, or you're colour blind. Your 'uncle', Geofry, your father's friend whom I've seen tag along occasionally with your father to pick you up, is colourblind judging from the state of his clothing. Your mother also seems a bit suspicious whenever the two are around you. It doesn't take more than an idiot to put two and two together, but then again, I suppose you're less than that," he concluded.

"And you," he said, whipping his head towards Tim, who recoiled slightly. Tom started to sniffle, beginning to cry. "Your parents are getting divorced," he stated. The pug-faced boy didn't even bother asking for an explanation. His anger shot through and he grabbed the books and threw it at Sherlock's face, hitting his nose spot on in the process.

"Don't talk to us ever again, you freak!" Tim said, his voice cracking as he and Tom ran out of the room, the latter bawling now. They passed Ms. Johnson, Sherlock's young teacher who was obviously a novice, who had noticed the three children missing outside and came back to look for them. Her eyes widened in shock as the two boys ran past her. She entered the classroom and walked up to the curly-haired boy who was sitting alone, gripping his nose as blood dripped from the cracks between his fingers.

Sherlock saw her enter out of the corner of his eye and immediately used the toe of his shoe to maneuver the illustration book to cover the anatomy book, both of which had landed on the floor after hitting Sherlock's nose.

"Sherlock! What in the world happened? Why are Tim and Tom crying? Did they do this to you?" she rambled, grabbing a multitude of tissues on her desk and giving them to him. "Come along. We must take to you to the infirmary." She began to help Sherlock out of his seat, but panicked at the amount of blood and picked him up instead. She sprinted down the corridor as a mortified Sherlock leaned his head downward in an attempt to hide his face from any witnesses. Unfortunately, gravity increased the blood flow and it took him all of his strength of clench his nostrils to prevent blood from spilling onto his teacher's shirt.

"Nurse, nurse!" Ms. Johnson cried out as she reached the doorway.

* * *

John opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly, gaping his mouth as he was trying to comprehend what had happened. He was staring up from the ground. Something wet was trailing down the side of his face. He touched it with his right hand and leaned towards his right. He looked at his fingers and saw blood. And a lot of it. Behind his fingers, he noticed a lot of feet. Disoriented, he slowly looked up and saw Nick, staring him down. The blond noticed William was gone from the crowd.

"William went to get a teacher, John! Don't worry!" someone shouted from his left. John slowly got up from his lying position, his anger beginning to surface as he realized that he had been punched in the face by none other than Nick Filamos.

John swiveled his head to the left and back, staggering a bit. "Oh, it's on now," he muttered as Nick stood towering above him, sneering. John clenched his hands into fists and charged, tackling the surprised boy to the ground and sat ontop of him, giving him a good right hook which missed his nose and hit his eye instead. The entire crowd gasped at the turn of events.  
"Now we're even!" he shouted as a strong grip took both of his arms and forced him off of Nick.

"Oh my God, John, are you alright?" he heard William's voice somewhere behind him as the teacher who had taken him off of Nick dragged him to the infirmary. The other children wouldn't stop talking about what had just happened until a teacher came and yelled at them all to disperse. Of course, they immediately obeyed, but they just spread out and told every single child that was not there what they had just witnessed.

From the grip, John could tell it wasn't his teacher because Mrs. Wilson was much too kind to drag anyone like that. Well, that and the fact that she was pregnant and probably wouldn't have gotten herself involved with such physical violence didn't hurt his deduction. He couldn't look up as his left arm was held captive to whoever was dragging him and his right was currently occupied with the task of attempting to hold in the blood that was pouring from his painful nose.

"Honestly, kids these days!" the woman muttered. She shoved him into the doorway of the infirmary in which the nurse immediately stood up from her chair and began to tend to him.

* * *

Sherlock sat alone in the infirmary on the high cushioned bed for patients as he waited for Mycroft to come pick him up as his nose wouldn't stop bleeding. The entire room was white. He didn't quite like white because it reminded him of the many times his mother took him to different doctors to get tested. He shifted uncomfortably and the thin paper beneath him crinkled loudly with every move. The nurse had tried calling his parents, but neither of them picked up the phone. As a result, they had resorted to calling Mycroft's number who picked up even though he was at school. They explained the situation and notified him that Ms. Johnson also wanted to talk to him when he came, so Sherlock was stuck waiting for his older brother while his teacher went to go find Tim and Tom to figure out what had happened.

The curly dark-haired child sighed. All he wanted to do that day was just to sit in peace and quiet and read. Was that too much to ask? Now, here he was, sitting on an extremely uncomfortable blasphemy of a cushioned bed, forced to breathe through his mouth as two pieces of tissue were shoved up his nostrils to collect the blood. He swallowed and immediately regretted it as bouts of excess blood travelled down his throat. The nurse had also put a couple of band-aids on his nose as the bottom of the spine of the book had hit him and left a large gash and a purpling bruise to go with that.

"Sherlock!" he heard Mycroft's voice from a bit down the hallway. The older Holmes sibling abruptly popped into the view of the doorway, leaning against the left side of the frame in an attempt to catch his breath. "Sherlock, what happened? Are you alright?" he said as he walked towards his younger brother. He lightly poked the skin on his brother's nose as Sherlock winced and pushed his hands away.

"Stop it, that hurts, Mycroft," he glared.

Mycroft ignored him and turned to the nurse. "How bad is it? Is it broken?" he asked.

The dirty blonde-haired woman shook her head. "No, but the bruise and cut will give him some pain, but other than that, he should be fine. If his nose keeps bleeding though, you might have to take him to the hospital. It's been about fifteen minutes, but if it keeps bleeding past thirty, I urge you to take him," she concluded, excusing herself.

Mycroft turned towards his younger brother and sighed. "How did this happen? What did you do?" he asked. Sherlock said nothing. Ms. Johnson rapped the frame of the doorway.

"Mycroft Holmes, I presume?" she asked, beckoning him towards her.

He turned towards his brother. "Stay right here, Sherlock. I'll be back in a moment. Then we'll get your things and head on home, alright?" Sherlock didn't reply, but chose to lay down on his right side. The teenager left his brother on the bed and stepped out into the hallway.

"I believe you said you wanted to speak with me, yes, Ms...?" he began.  
Sherlock's teacher nodded and replied, "Johnson. And yes. I presume you are his older brother. Is there a way I can speak to your parents, or your mother, perhaps?"

Mycroft gave a ghost of a sad smile and said, "It would be best if all things regarding Sherlock goes to me."

"Very well then," the woman replied. "It seems to me that Sherlock is having a bit of trouble making friends. He got into a conversation with two of his classmates and ended up making them cry. One of them confessed he threw a book at your brother's nose. Has he been under any sort of stress at home, lately?"

Mycroft shifted his eyes through the door, staring at his brother who laid still with his eyes closed. "No, but you must understand. Sherlock is..not like other children. He's a bit difficult to understand which is why I must ask that you have the utmost patience. I will do what I can to talk to him, but really, it's the other children I'm worried about," he answered.

Ms. Johnson sighed. "I see. I will talk to the two boys, but I will keep in contact with you. Sherlock hasn't been very forthcoming with the other children. He always sits alone and reads and when he does have conversations with the other children, his classmates end up crying, calling him names, or getting mad," she said, a bit exasperated. "Well, thank you for your time. I will call you again," Ms. Johnson said as she patted the young man's shoulder and walked back to the classroom to continue the rest of the day. He watched her leave until he remembered that he needed to collect Sherlock's things and followed her back to the classroom. He picked up Sherlock's coat and the books on the floor without giving them a second glance, tossing them in his brother's rucksack as the children watched, ignoring the lesson before them, before slinging the tiny bag over his shoulder and walking back towards the infirmary.

"Sherlock," Mycroft called, "let's go home," he said as he gently went towards the boy and nudged his brother.

"Tired," the child mumbled, still a bit congested, without opening his eyes.

The teenager rolled his eyes and picked him up, carrying him out to the awaiting cab outside the school.

* * *

John gripped the bridge of his nose and winced. Nick had left a nice bruise that would radiate pain for days. He made a mental note to himself to keep away from Harry. Knowing her, she would attempt to poke it with every chance she got.

The nurse bustled about, getting tissues and bandages when Mrs. Harrington walked through the door, dragging Nick by his arm. John stared at Nick and noticed his black eye, a gift from none other than himself.

The large boy glared towards John, his eyes stemming with hatred. John raised a brow.

"Congratulations, Watson. You are officially on my to-be-dead list," he threatened.

"Shush, Nicholas! You are in serious trouble. You too, John," Mrs. Harrington said as she whipped her head towards the blond. She waggled her finger at him. "Children. I don't know why I didn't retire," she mumbled as she stalked out the door, rubbing her temples with her fingers..

The nurse handed Nick an ice pack to ease the swelling on his eye and got to work on John's nose. She cleaned it up, tilted his head back while grabbing his hand to make him pinch a patch of gauze to his nose, and put his head back down, handing him an ice pack to hold to the bruise with his other hand.

The boys sat in silence for a moment before John frustratingly asked, "Why do you insist on picking on William? What has he ever done to you to make you hate him so bloody much?" to the boy who sat on the other side of the room.

"He's weak, Watson. And so are you," Nick answered with a smirk.

John scoffed. "Yeah, I'm weak. That's why i gave you that black eye, isn't it?"

Nick's face turned red. He bolted off of the bed and ran towards John before the nurse stopped him.

"Nicholas! Outside. Now!" she ordered. He huffed as he wobbled away, still holding the ice pack to his eye.

"This isn't over, Watson!" he yelled as the nurse shooed him out the door and back to class. John watched the spectacle and laughed at the whole clichéd-ness of it all. The nurse came back and allowed him to rest until his nose bleed cleared up and then sent him back to class.

"John! John! Are you okay?" everyone clamored over him as he walked in still holding the icepack to his nose. They completely ignored Mrs. Wilson's lesson. She took that opportunity to make a beeline for the restroom. Her pregnancy was making her in need to urinate quite more often than she used to.

William shoved through the crowd, eyes shining with concern. "Are you okay? Thanks, John. I don't think I thanked you again. You're always coming to my rescue, aren't you? Haha..." he shyly rubbed the nape of his neck and shifted from foot to foot.

"No need for thanks, Will. Friends do what it takes, you know?" he said as he took his seat, waiting for Mrs. Wilson to come back as the children blew up about how cool and scary he was earlier that day.

* * *

**A/N:  
**Haha well, I think I updated within a week, right? Good job, self.  
I was trying to sleep one night and this chapter's plot came into my head.  
That's probably why I got it done pretty quickly.  
I started it earlier this week and then finished it today because I have no car & was stuck at home all day. Lol (I'm getting one soon though. Yesss)  
I don't think it's my best work so far, but whatever.

I know, I know, my style is getting a little silly, but it's because they're kids. They're still immature, so I have to stay within the ways a child thinks, even a genius. I apologize for some of the cliche moments though. haha

Anyway,  
Thank you for reading! :)


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**  
**Chapter 4**

**Captain**

* * *

"Hoist the mast! All hands on deck!" Sherlock barked from above the men. The crewmates immediately scrambled around, reaching their stations on the top deck to steer the ship away from the incoming naval ship whose inhabitants were bent on arresting Captain Holmes and his crew.

"Captain, I see rain clouds rolling in the horizon, that I do!" someone shouted from below.

Sherlock groaned and opened his telescope to see for himself. It was just his luck.

"Never mind that. Hurry up, men! Full speed ahead! Tonight, we shall emerge as victors once again!" he shouted. The crewmate who grabbed his attention immediately saluted him and scurried off as the others yelled in unison their agreement.

Here he was, in a bout of cat and mouse with the commodore who sought to capture the arrest warrant on his head. Of course, it also didn't help much that the man also had a bit of a deep seated grudge against the young captain.

The naval ship was closing in but the captain was not worried. His ship was very fast, one of the fastest on the sea, and the huge pile of junk that was the commodore's ship was absolutely no match.

One of his men noticed their flag was not raised. "Cap, gonna raise the flag," he declared from below. The dark haired captain gave a curt nod and watched as the tattered black flag slowly rose, the white skull silently laughing, mocking the commodore and all of his men on board.

* * *

"Captain! Captain! Your orders? The enemy is about to breach our lines!" Nathan frantically asked John as they sat on the ground behind giant trees, panting heavily due to lack of oxygen. John took a moment to think. Half of his men had fallen behind somewhere; their unit was split and there was no way to communicate.

"Man down, man down! You got him!" he heard a soldier yell from somewhere beyond, behind the bushes.

John groaned. They were never going to safely deliver the 'gift' to the enemy's headquarters. It was their job to plant the C4. John ordered James to be the carrier while his other men were supposed to surround and protect him, but as they were carving a pathway, they got ambushed and the unit got separated.

"First, we have to regroup. How many men are left?" John asked. Nathan glanced over at all the huddled boys and did a quick headcount.

"About five," he answered.

"Then about four are left out there," John answered.

Nathan tilted his head to the side in puzzlement. "Four? Shouldn't there be five?"

The blond captain pointed towards the other side of the forest. "Man down, remember? That was enemy Captain Robinson's voice I heard."

"Bloody-"

"-watch out!" someone interrupted Nathan. "They've breached our defence, I repeat: they've breached our defense!"

* * *

Sherlock smirked from above as his entire crew roared in laughter on the deck. They had, once again, evaded the bumbling commodore and watched as the other ship futilely attempted to follow; they slowly shrunk in the distance as his ship furthered the distance between the two.

"Where to, now, captain?" one of his men asked as the laughing and cheering died down.

"Onwards, to the Coast of the Cursed."

"Ahh, we haven't been to that harbor in a while, have we?" the redhead noted. "Tonight, we shall feast!" the young man yelled to the crew with his fist in the air.

"Aye!" they responded in unison, breaking up and returning to their normal stations. Some of the men went back below and Sherlock began making his way to the captain's cabin.

He briskly walked past several men and once inside his room, shut the door and took out his personal journal from his inner right breast pocket. He took out the worn piece of paper that was folded within its pages and glanced at the writing on the top:

_"Warning be to ye.  
All who attempt to find the lost treasure end in death."_

Death. Everyone ends in death sooner or later, the young captain thought. The Legend of the Devil's Fiddle. It was all or nothing whether his crew was with him, or not.

* * *

"Alright men, listen up," John said as they huddled on the ground, crouching in a circle as the blond captain drew out their next maneuver. "Here," he pointed to an 'x' with a stick he had drawn with a stick he had found on the ground. "This is the general area where our men are. They're most likely running out of ammunition so it's our job to search and rescue as many as we can. Now here," he pointed to another spot diagonal from the first one he had pointed to, "this is where the enemy breached our lines. Isn't that right, Nathan?" he called up to the tree.

"Yes, sir," Nathan shouted from above. He was sitting on a branch and was scouting the area from up above.

"James, I want you to peer around the side of the bush and see if you can catch a glimpse of our men," he ordered as James nodded. The dirty-blond haired boy crawled around the perimeter of the bush and slowly peered out. He spotted the top of someone's head behind a tree on the other side of the forest and shifted his sight towards the left. His eyes widened and he scampered back.

"Cap'n, the enemy is resting right outside where our men are!"

John groaned. "Things are worse than I thought! Alright, this is what we're going to do. Nathan, you stay up there. James and I will go to the right, you two to the left. We're doing this and we're doing this now. Stay low, stay quiet. If you run out of ammo, may God have mercy on your soul," he ordered.

* * *

"Captain?" Sherlock heard one of his mates rap his knuckles on the door. "We've arrived. Crew's getting ready to dock at the port," he informed.

"Alright. Order the men to wait until I get out," Sherlock answered as he looked away from the wall. Before him was a plethora of pinned maps, documents filled with text or hand written writings, drawn renderings of the cursed object, and a thin piece of rope connecting everything together held by nails. He had poured over all the evidence and legends, piecing them together one by one in order to find out the history and burial site of the forbidden treasure.

He grabbed the painting of the sea that was leaning against his dresser and set it back on the wall, covering everything from eyesight and then straightened his clothes, grabbed his journal, and placed it back into his breast pocket. He turned off his oil lamp, shut the double doors behind him, and locked it with the key he wore on a necklace which was usually tucked beneath his shirt.

He stood above the deck and looked down at his crew; all of his men were gathered below, looking up at him and awaiting further instructions. "Great job, men. We stay for an indefinite amount of time. Wait for further instructions which shall come in a day or so," he informed as the men all cheered and scrambled off the ship once it reached the dock.

* * *

John quietly squatted and peered around the corner. He looked back, pointed at the unit, and then to his two eyes, telling them to watch him. The enemy was camped outside the area the rest of the blond's group was, apparently using them as bait to lure John out. He grabbed his 'gun' and held it up to his chest, then ran for it. He quickly shuffled towards a tree and stood still, breathing heavily. The adrenaline was making him pumped for action so he took it upon himself to squat down. He aimed his gun and-

"-Ack! I got shot! Which one of you idiots shot me?" Terrance asked the other half of John's group.

"Don't ask me, Terrance. You're cheating, if you ask me, keeping us as 'hostages' and all," William boredly stated behind the bush. They were trapped, John noticed, as there were a couple of Terrance's boys stationed behind William and the crew. He looked back and motioned for James to come over as the enemy camp was even more preoccupied with arguing with William. James hesitated and then ran for it, just as his captain did. John proceeded to glance up at Nathan who was back at his spot in the tree on a pretty high tree branch.

Nathan nodded at John and gave him the 'okay' after checking with the other two boys who were hidden somewhere to Nathan's left. John held up his fingers and counted down to three.

One.

Two.

Three!

"Now!" he yelled and all of the boys stood up and open fired. The other half of his unit took the opportunity to ambush the enemy boys who were watching them.

"Darn!" Robinson yelled.

John squinted at the 'clearing smoke' and ordered, "Cease fire!"

There, on the ground, laid Robinson, the leader of the enemy camp. "Watson, you win. I'm down. My boys are all down, I think. I was getting famished anyway. Plus, I ran out of ammo," he said as he pulled out a single rubber band out of his pocket. "Let's go eat." He threw his stick on the floor as John's group all let out yells of victory.

"Great game, boys!" Nathan yelled from atop the tree.

"Winston, are you sniping up there?" a voice asked.

"Yeah," Nathan gleefully answered as he climbed down the tree. "That's actually rather fun. You should try it next time we play," he said as he showered everyone with rubber bands.

All the boys held up their arms above their heads. "Hey! Where'd you get all that ammo, cheater?" William asked as he picked up the excess bands that Nathan threw. He merely smiled and dusted off his jacket.

John tossed his stick towards the tree he was standing behind moments before and tucked the remaining rubber bands in his trouser pockets for next time. James took off the red band that was pinned to his arm and threw it at Robinson.

"Hey, Robinson, you be 'carrier' next time." The boy caught it and stuffed it in his jacket.

"Yes! My turn!" he cheerfully said, "Now let's go get that bite to eat, yeah?" he said as all the boys nodded and began to walk out of the forest.

"John, you're a great captain!" someone mentioned as they continued on their way.

* * *

Captain Holmes stood alone on the dock, late at night while his crew ran off to enjoy their time off. He had to catch the phantom ghost ship tonight or else he wouldn't be able to do so again. He'd have to wait thirteen years and he wasn't about to waste this chance.

He clicked open his gleaming silver pocket watch which, oddly, had thirteen hours on it and went counter-clock wise. Everyone who had seen it roared in laughter and commented that he'd been duped and that the watchmaker was an idiot, but Sherlock knew better. He wouldn't say how he acquired the timepiece, but all people had to know was that it was a clock for something other than the time.

The long minute hand ticked to the left and reached 'thirteen o'clock'. It was exactly thirteen years from the last time the ship had been spotted at this very harbor. The moon was full and Sherlock was full of expectations. There, in the distance, he spotted a glowing back ship rising from the shadows. It was gliding across the water, and stopped, right there in the middle of the sea.

Sherlock quickly ran down the pier and grabbed a single rider's boat and jumped when someone grabbed his hand-

-Mycroft pushed his brother's bedroom door open and stared at the sight before him.

"Ah, Commodore Mycroft, my arch-nemesis," he stated as he got into a defensive position, 'drawing his sword' out of its hilt. Mycroft stared at him.

The teenager stood before the child, one foot forward, hand still on the door knob. "Downstairs. Now. Time to eat, Sherlock. And take off father's coat. You're dragging it all over the floor," he said as he began to turn. "Wait, is that my scarf you've piled atop your head?" he asked as he whipped his head back towards his brother.

The dark haired child shook his head, forcing the makeshift turban on his head fall to the ground. He abruptly climbed onto his bed and yelled, "En garde, you swine!" and leapt off, jumping towards his older brother who panicked and caught him mid air.

"Sherlock! What in God's name are you doing?" he shouted. "Nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"Like you needed any help with that, what, with your sweets habit and all," he mumbled.

"What?"

"Nothing," Sherlock said as he faked an innocent smile.

Mycroft raised a brow and set him on the ground. He kneeled to get level with the annoying child and started unbuttoning his father's coat. "Mum's most likely going to yell at you for taking dad's coat, you know," he stated as he finished unfastening the last button and dusted it off.

Sherlock shrugged as Mycroft threw the coat on the bed and grabbed his brother's hand, dragging him out the door to eat.

"Until next time," Sherlock quietly said as he looked back at his room.

* * *

**A/N:**

Ack this is a few hours late. I apologize! :(  
I started a new class in summer school and God, so much work. o_o  
It's easy and stupid, but a lot of work. I hate it. Haha

Anyway, I also apologize for the fact that this is shorter than the rest of the chapters.  
This one wasn't flowing as well as I would have liked it to.  
Mainly because I had to pretend like I knew what I was writing about.  
I am so not nautical or military, but neither are the boys so mistakes and lack of terms is alright. lol

Thank you for reading! :D


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**  
**Chapter 5**

**Nightmare**

* * *

John suppressed a sniffle as he sat in his desk during school. He crossed his arms and shivered a little as he tuned out the lesson before him and sneezed. The wind pounded relentlessly against the window as Mrs. Wilson droned on about something the blond wasn't really paying attention to. Ever since that morning, he was feeling a little bit under the weather, but didn't tell his mother as he thought it was nothing. Harry would have definitely teased him for being a "mother's boy" and John hated when she did that. He was tough. He could be tough. He could take care of himself.

It had begun to snow more than a few hours ago and everyone was becoming a bit concerned. Well, the adults were at least. The students clapped in delight as the first snowfall of the year commenced after having to witness the dreary drizzle of rain all week. There was something about snow that suggested something more than just icy rain. It was magical. Enchanting. Unfortunately, the snow was falling extremely quickly and hadn't let up as of yet.

Suddenly, John sneezed again just as the announcement system came on.

"Attention all students: the school will be closing early due to weather concerns. Your guardians have all been notified and will start arriving to take you home. Any student without a guardian to escort you will need to go to the library and await further instructions. Thank you," the voice ended.

The children all cheered, clearly excited to end class as none of them were really paying attention. They had stopped when it started snowing, stealing glances out the window, wishing they could be outside instead. As soon as the announcement was made, Mrs. Wilson's students rushed around the classroom to collect their belongings, anticipating the moment when they got to leave. John, however, didn't move an inch. He felt warm, maybe a bit too warm. His vision was becoming a little bit blurry. He blinked a couple times to snap out of it, trying to ignore the subtle pounding sensation in his head.

"Hey, John, do you think that this weather will let up until break starts? We only have a couple more days left, right?" a classmate asked. The blond didn't know who was speaking to him as his ears began to ring. His body was feverish now. His classmates didn't notice his lack of response and carried on, animatedly chatting with each other.

Soon, parents were beginning to arrive, taking their overly joyous children home, ushering them out the door as they said their goodbyes to each other. John still didn't move from his seat, his head slightly bent downwards, until someone tapped his shoulder.

"John, you should gather your things and get your coat on. I'm sure someone will be here to pick you up very soon," he heard his teacher say. He mustered all his strength to stand up. It was a colossal mistake because as soon as he stood up, his vision became blurry and the room began to spin. He blinked a few times.

"John! Hurry up!" he heard his sister call from the door. His mother and sister came at last.

"Oh look! Your sister and Mrs. Watson are here," Mrs. Wilson said.

John began to sway a little. "I feel a bit...dizzy," he managed to get out before he collapsed.

"John!"

* * *

Sherlock laid on the floor of his bedroom clad in his pajamas and wrapped tightly in a blanket. It was dreadfully cold that day and it had even begun to snow. The schools were all advised to close early due to the concern for the children's safety, so of course, Mycroft promptly took Sherlock home in a cab.

Currently, the dark-haired child was situated in the middle of a chaos of books that were strewn across the floor, surrounding him with only a lamp to his left for his light source. The light bulb was shining light directly on his left cheek, burning it as it warmed up.

"Bloody lamp," he muttered as he adjusted the flexible neck away from his face. The younger Holmes had moved the lamp to the floor so he could read the music books he was studying. He had gone to a few lessons with Shiri, but ever since the weather began to become a hindrance, he decided to take a break and study a bit by himself. He was thirsty to learn. Music was like an entirely different language to him, but it made sense.

He suppressed a sniffle as he flipped the page. He tried to concentrate, but it was hard to read about scales as time went by because he began to feel like he had the blanket wrapped around too tightly. It was getting a bit hot in his room. He threw the blanket back onto his bed and continued to read. Not a minute later, he began to shiver again.

"Sherlock, drink the tea mum made," he heard Mycroft said as he opened the door. He pushed the slightly open door with his back as the tea tray occupied both of his hands. Careful not to spill the tea or drop the biscuits, he turned around and faced his brother who was laying on the floor.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft scolded as he placed the tea on the young boy's desk. It took him a few moments as there were books and papers scattered all over it and there really wasn't any free room. He looked around for the best spot to put it and eventually just placed it on a pile of junk, nevermind if his brother got angry. It was his fault he didn't keep his things tidy. After placing the tray down, he grabbed the blanket off of his brother's bed and threw it on the child, covering his entire frame.

"You'll catch a cold and I'm telling you, I refuse to sit up all night taking care of you," the teenager said and he turned back to pour some tea into a cup. Sherlock sniffled again. Mycroft sighed and immediately set the cup and saucer back down and squatted on the floor.

"Come here," he ordered to his completely-covered sibling before him.

"No," came a muffled reply from under the blanket.

He clicked his tongue impatiently and grabbed the top of the blanket, exposing his brother to the cold air. He took a moment to raise his hand towards the vent in Sherlock's room. "Your heater isn't working very well, is it?" he mentioned as he felt the heat come through weakly. He turned his head back towards the child laying on the floor and noticed he was beginning to sweat.

Sherlock blinked slowly at him, his breath beginning to become laboured.

Mycroft raised his hand and placed it on his brother's forehead. "Sherlock, you're burning up with a fever!" He was a bit alarmed at how warm his brother's skin was.

The younger Holmes merely shook his head. "I'm not sick, Mycroft. I don't get sick."

"Right. Get up then," he said as he wrapped his brother up in his blanket and hoisted him off the floor like some sort of sack.

"M'Not sick," the younger boy said almost incoherently. His face was covered again by the blanket.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and carried him out of the room.

* * *

John slowly opened his eyes. His fever was making him sluggish so it took him a moment to realize what had happened. He looked at his surroundings and noticed he was in his room.

"Mum," he called out weakly. There was no reply. Someone was coming down the hallway though.

"Harry?" he called. The footsteps stopped and someone opened his door. His older sister poked her head, holding up the front of her jumper to cover her nose and mouth to protect herself from his germs.

"Mum! John's awake!" she yelled in a muffled manner over her shoulder.

"Oh, good!" he heard as his mother quickly shuffled over from wherever she was. She ran in with a glass of water, passing her daughter who left to the kitchen. "Drink this, dear," she said as she held it up to his head as he weakly sat up.

He gulped the cold water down, grateful she hadn't forced him to drink tea. His body was burning up and he was really hot.

"Oh dear, I hope the snow lets up, but I don't think it will. We had to bring you home because the snow fall turned into a storm and the hospital was too far. It would be dangerous to travel. Are you feeling better, John?" his mother said worriedly.

John didn't reply but rolled up his sleeves. He suddenly realized he was in his pajamas.

"Stop that. You need to sweat the fever out," his mother fussed as she rolled them back down. She took his comforter and tightly tucked him in it. "Don't kick the covers off. I'm going to be right back," she said.

John groaned. It was ridiculously hot . He couldn't even think straight. Mrs. Watson entered his room with medicine, a bowl of water and a cloth. "Eat this," she ordered as she held up a spoon with medicine on it. He reluctantly opened his mouth just a little bit in which his mother took the opportunity to shove it in his mouth. He spluttered from the aftertaste reached for the glass of water he drank earlier to wash it down. Mrs. Watson then wet the cloth and twisted it to strain the water a bit, then folded it and placed it on his forehead.

She stood up and walked towards the door. "Get some sleep, dear. You'll get better sooner if you do," she said as she slowly closed the door.

* * *

Mycroft tossed his brother down on his own bed and walked out of his room to retrieve the tea and to inform his mother her son was sick. Sherlock, tangled up in the blanket, struggled to get out as it was extremely hot and he was lacking oxygen. He finally found an opening and was welcomed by a blast of hot air. The heat was much too stifling in his brother's room. He kicked the blanket off and rolled up his sleeves. He was still hot, so he rolled up his pajama bottoms. He liked his own room better because it was easier to breathe in the cold air.

"Sherlock?" he heard his mother's voice approach the room as she walked upstairs. He laid on the bed, not moving an inch. She walked in the door carrying a bottle of medicine, a spoon, and some water. Her son, still on the bed, made no acknowledgement of her presence. Mrs. Holmes took the opportunity to sit on the bed and measure his fever by placing her hand upon his forehead.

"You've caught a fever, haven't you?" she said to which he promptly responded as he sniffled, "I'm not sick."

"Take this and go to sleep," she ordered as she poured out a bit of the red liquid.

"No," he simply replied. In the short moment he opened his mouth, she shoved the spoon in and forced him to eat it, clearly anticipating it. Sherlock grimaced and stuck his tongue out after his mother pulled the utensil out. Oh, she was clever, the woman was.

"Good, Sherlock. Now drink some water and go to sleep," she demanded as she waited for him to finish his water before taking the cup. He sniffled again. "Don't worry, I'll tell your brother to bring tissues," she said as she left the room to prepare food for her husband.

* * *

John laid in his dark room as the cold emanated from the window to his right. He could see the continuous snowfall through the blinds. It was a bit eerie outside and he felt like he was looking another another world as there wasn't a single soul in sight outside which wasn't surprising. He began to shiver again, feeling a bit irritated with his body's indecisiveness. The fever was making his thoughts incoherent even to himself, so he stopped thinking and simply watched the snow fall outside his window. His heavy eyelids slowly began to close as he became hypnotized by the flurry outside...

Mycroft brought the tea tray over from Sherlock's room and handed him the cup he had poured earlier. He also pulled some tissues out of the box and gave it to his little brother. Sherlock set the cup and saucer down on the nightstand and blew his runny nose. He refused to accept the fact that he was sick, but he had to admit, he felt very under the weather. He drank the tea and set it back down, then flopped back on the bed himself.

"Please, for the love of God, do not get germs everywhere. Your room is a freezer so you're sleeping here tonight, but you better not get me sick," Mycroft warned from his computer. Sherlock grunted in response and flipped over on his side to face the window, turning his back to his brother who resumed whatever he was doing. It was clear that there was no school tomorrow, so Sherlock assumed Mycroft was busy with something other than schoolwork. He didn't really care what he was doing though. The fever was making him think incoherently. His thoughts were jumbled, but they still made sense to himself, if not anyone else. Although, if he _were_ anyone else, his thoughts would still be incoherent. Well, maybe not to Mycroft.

A few minutes passed and Sherlock's heavy eyes began to close as he listened to the tapping sound his brother was making on this keyboard. His breathing slowed down and he began to drift away to sleep, still gripping a tissue in his small hand.

* * *

John was walking alone in a desolate street. There was no sign of life anywhere but himself. A cold breeze passed his way and he shivered, noticing his lack of warm clothing.

"Hello?" he called out, his voice echoing. Naturally, there was no response. He continued on his way, a flickering street lamp every few yards to help light the path he was following. He looked around as he walked. It was evident all the rubble and broken glass on the ground used to belong to fully erect buildings, but they were all destroyed. John looked up at the sky and marvelled at the brilliance of the stars. The sky was extremely clear and he could see thousands upon thousands of stars, twinkling down at him. He continued on like that for a few minutes until he saw a figure way out in the distance.

"Hey! Hey you!" He yelled out. John started to run towards the figure, but it just laughed and ran way. "No, come back!" he cried. It was too late. The figure vanished into the fog.

"_John. John." _an omniscient feminine voice called out. It could have been male, but it was hard to tell. The blond whipped around.

"Who's there?" he asked as condensed air escaped his mouth with every word. It was getting colder and colder.

"_John..."_

He couldn't tell where the voice was coming from. It was all around him. Suddenly, a strong gust of wind knocked him off his feet, slamming him into the remnants of a nearby building. He coughed and had to take a moment to get back up.  
What in the world was going on?

After getting back on his feet, the young boy looked around for something, anything, to help him fend off whatever was trying to hurt him. There, in the corner of his eye, he saw an abandoned crowbar.

_"John..."_ the voice whispered again. He looked around and couldn't see who or what was calling him.

"Show yourself! What do you want?" he yelled. To his chagrin, the voice didn't answer. He was scanning the area when he saw the dark figure he had witnessed earlier standing in the fog before him. It was standing still, staring at him. Or at least it seemed like it was staring at him; it was impossible to tell. He felt goosebumps on his arms and the hair rose on the back of his neck.

"Stop being so creepy, please," he requested. The figure responded by slowly flashing him a smile and disappearing. Everything was calm until another gush of wind blew at the blond who stood his ground, gripping the crowbar. He ran down the path and the lights started flickering hastily. The figure showed up again, like a dark shadow in the fog, taunting him to catch it. "Stop right there! Who are you?" he cried after the giggling figure.

xxxx

"Stop, whoareyou," Harry heard her younger sibling mutter as he tossed and turned an hour after he fell asleep. She poked him but he still dreamt.

"John, John!" she called him while shaking him. Her brother abruptly opened his eyes and gasped, sweating and heaving.

"Wh-what..." he began.

"You were having a bad dream, that's all. Here, mum said to drink this," his sister said as she handing him a glass of juice.

John gladly accepted it as he realized he was a bit parched and gulped it down.

"Thanks," he said as his sister walked out the door.

* * *

Sherlock was lost. All he could see was forest and more forest as he walked down the pathway that ran straight down the middle of the dense forest filled with gigantic trees and bushes. It was dark, but the full moon shone enough light to illuminate his surroundings. He heard a twig snap somewhere to his right.

"Who's there?" he called out. There was no response for a few seconds until he heard a strange laughter.

"_I know your secrets, Sherlock," _a young male voice said in a sing-songy voice.

The child had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had never felt it before. Was this what people called fear?

Sherlock looked behind him and noticed the path was closed off, replaced by trees. It was the same in the path before him. He was trapped in a circular enclosure of trees and could feel the figure circling him.

_"You're a freak, Sherlock. You're weird. Even your own mother thinks you're weird," _the voice continued. Sherlock said nothing.

_"She doesn't love you. She loves Mycroft, her prized possession. You're nothing to her. Even Mycroft thinks you're the biggest freak ever to exist."_

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled. He didn't want to hear it.

_"I know everything. Your insecurities, your fears, I know everything,"_ the voice went on.

"I said to stop! Who are you and what do you want from me? I have nothing to give you," he said, ignoring the words of the figure.

xxxx

Mycroft glanced over at his brother's back while he took a sip of tea. The younger Holmes seemed to be sleeping soundly, he noticed. He paused and stood up from his desk and decided to walk over to his bed. He raised his hand again and took his brother's temperature. Sherlock's head was still burning up and he was starting to sweat a lot even though his body was shivering. The teenager tucked the blanket closer to his brother and went downstairs to retrieve a wet cloth. When he came back, his brother had kicked off the covers.

Sighing, he picked the blanket up from the floor and put it back on the petit child. He gently rolled him over onto his back and placed the cloth on in order to cool him down somewhat and went back to his computer, putting on his headphones to not disturb his sick brother's slumber. It was silent for a few more moments until Sherlock muttered something in his sleep to which Mycroft took off his headphones, paused his music, and said, "What?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he repeated, "Stop!" as he tossed his head to his side.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft asked as his brother began to twitch in his sleep. He shook him, but his sibling still slept.

"Stop," Sherlock uttered, barely audible. Mycroft shook him harder which woke him. His brother slowly opened his eyes.

"You had a nightmare, Sherlock. Go back to sleep or else you won't be able to sleep this fever off," he informed the child who turned away and said nothing in reply.

* * *

**A/N:**

Yeah, this chapter is weird. Lol I feel like the ending was a bit rushed, but I'm really just tired right now.  
I feel so bad for Sherlock. He's so child-like and vulnerable even as an adult.  
This is set in winter because I _really_ can't wait for fall and winter. haha Texas heat is a nightmare.  
Mycroft in my series is a hybrid of canon & BBC version. He's nicer in canon and an arse in BBC. Lol

By the way, I forgot to explain the game John was playing in the last chapter.  
It's based on a game I played a long time ago online called S4 League which in turn, is based on like.. flag football plus guns. It's really fun. haha. Essentially, you get the floating ball (or the red arm band in my story) to the other team's side and get a point and/or win. Your teammates are in charge of protecting whoever has the ball by shooting and sniping the other team. This can be easily played w/ paintball guns in real life.

And lastly: My heart and prayers go out to all those who were affected by the terrible senseless James Holmes tragedy in Colorado. I was actually up writing this when reports started flooding in early in the morning after it occurred and kept up with it, horrified as the number of victims increased with each report.  
And to think this man's last name is the name of the detective we all love who works to prevent these things...a bit ironic.  
I can't even imagine the immensity of the terrible events that happened to those who were there at the theater, unsuspecting and only wishing to watch a movie they had been eagerly anticipating since before they even started filming.

I know people are going to argue about gun control, but the brutal truth is, everything has a price.  
Leave the guns, take them away, something bad will still happen.  
Everything has a price.

Sorry for the long A/N, but once again,  
Thank you for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**  
**Chapter 6**

**The Woes and Woos of Childhood**

* * *

Sherlock sat on the ground and tilted his head to the side as he peered into a jar he held at eye level in which he had collected a couple insects in. Crawling on the side was a beetle he had found, futilely attempting its escape. Of course, he had poked holes in the lid in order to allow them to breathe, but he had an inkling the lady bug he had captured earlier was dead. He shook the jar and the grass he had added fell to the bottom. The beetle, however, stood its ground. It was a wonderfully breezy, sunny day outside and all the children were running around, laughing and having fun during their recess. Sherlock sat in the nice, cool shade of a large oak tree at the back of the field, sitting on the grass with an entomology book and his magnifying glass lying beside him.

"Hey, Sherlock," he heard a voice behind him. The dark haired boy turned around and looked up.

"Oh. Hello, Christopher," he politely replied. He turned back around to face his jar, a bit uncomfortable at his classmate's presence. No one really talked to him. They all called him a 'freak' and stayed away. He wondered what had possessed the boy before him to muster up the courage to come greet him.

"What are you doing?" he asked the dark-haired boy. Sherlock paused.

"Studying," he merely replied.

After a moment, Christopher asked, "What are you studying?"

Sherlock, slightly irritated, shifted his eyes to the left towards the boy behind him. "Entomology."

"Oh," the little boy responded, "What's that?"

Sherlock set the jar back down and sat still for a second out of fear of saying something terribly mean before picking up the heavy entomology book he had borrowed from the library and handing it to Christopher. The child received it and promptly sat down on the grass beside Sherlock and opened it.

As soon as the boy's bottom hit the ground, the younger Holmes went stiff. He didn't actually expect his classmate to..._sit down with him_. It was a bit disconcerting. All the meanwhile, Christopher opened the book, flipped through a couple pages, and widened his eyes.

"This is fascinating! What's that?" he pointed to an illustrated diagram of the anatomy of a dung beetle.

Sherlock glanced at it."That particular part you are pointing to is the pronotal lobe, also known as the horn."

His classmate gave no response but continued to flip through the book. He wasn't really reading it, but he was fascinated by the numerous detailed illustrations. He laid down to get in a more comfortable position and started absentmindedly swinging his legs back and forth in the air.

The two boys sat there in silence.

* * *

John was laying down, his arms splayed out, and his body sprawled out on the grass carelessly. The weather was excellent for cloud watching and he really didn't feel like doing anything. A cool breeze rippled through his hair and grazed his skin. He loved days like this. Earlier his friends had asked if he wanted in on a game of rugby, but he felt like it would be a waste not to appreciate the fine weather (although, that was really just an excuse for him feeling lazy that day). He needed to get away from everyone though; he needed some alone time every now and then, and today was the perfect day to just relax.

If he had to be honest, John _really_ wasn't cloud-gazing. He closed his eyes and laid there in silence, drinking in the rays of the sun when it became dark. John could tell even with his eyes closed that someone was standing directly in front of his head. The blond inwardly groaned and opened one eye.

"Hi, John," a girl he vaguely recognized greeted him warmly.

"Um. Hello," John replied, still laying on the ground.

"May I join you?" she asked.

The blond child felt a little uncomfortable. "Um. I suppose," he replied to which the girl promptly moved and sat on the grass next to him. He sat up, hoping she wouldn't realize he didn't have a clue as to who she was.

"It's okay. You don't have to sit up," she told him. She adjusted her pigtails.

"No, it's..alright," he replied awkwardly. They sat there in silence for a few seconds until the girl said, "How's your day?"

John just wished she would go away, but to be polite, he decided to oblige her. "Excellent. How has your day been?"

The girl picked at the grass and uprooted a small weed. "Good, i suppose. What were you doing?"

The blond started picking at the grass too. "Oh, I was just, uh...nothing," he lamely finished. "Sorry, what's your name again?" he asked, hoping she wouldn't be hurt.

"Elizabeth. But everyone calls me Lizzie," she answered.

John ripped a piece of grass out of the ground. "Oh. Okay, um, Lizzie. Do we, um, know each other?" he asked awkwardly. He didn't want to hurt the other blonde's feelings.

She shook her head. "Well, you don't know me, but I know you."

Still uncomfortable, John rubbed the back of his neck. "How?"

"You saved that kid, uh, William, was it?"

John remembered that day extremely vividly. "Oh, well. That wasn't really saving him. I just helped him out a bit, that's all. Weird that people talk though," he said. Lizzie immediately shook her head.

"No need to be modest! You're amazing!"

He froze. _Oh no,_ he thought, _she liked him_. Now, he really wished she would leave him alone.

* * *

Sherlock and Christopher had been sitting in the shade for about five minutes, saying nothing to each other. It was an awkward silence for the curly-haired boy, and a peaceful silence for the other. The younger Holmes had dumped everything out of his jar and confirmed that the ladybug he had caught was indeed, dead. He dusted his hands, already bored, and looked around.

Oh, how he hated the dullness of it all. Insects were interesting, but not exactly something that kept his interest for long.

The other boy was immersed in the book. Sherlock, on the other hand, was beginning to get restless and wished he had brought something else to do. Of course, he _could_ run around and play with the other children, but that was not a logical option. They wouldn't know how to play pirates.

"Hey, Sherlock," Christopher began, shaking the younger Holmes out of his thoughts, "thanks for the book." He shut it and handed it back to his classmate who sat there, just staring at him. He got up from his laying position, dusted his trousers, and walked away leaving a bewildered Sherlock with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

xxxx

Later that evening, Mycroft laid on his bed reading a book while resting on his side when his bedroom door burst wide open. It had been a long day at school, exam after exam, and all he wanted to do was rest. He chose a random book off his collection (some thriller about a spy) and proceeded to read it for the third time.

"Thank you for knocking, Sherlock," he said sarcastically without giving him as so much as a single glance. His little brother barged right in and tried to climb up on his bed which was very high, but failed miserably. Suddenly, Mycroft had an eerie feeling as he continued about his business. The older Holmes lifted his book, peeked under it, and jumped slightly as Sherlock's iridescent eyes, barely above the mattress level, pierced through him. He sighed and set his novel down.

"Alright, come here," he ordered as he leaned over the bed and grabbed his little brother by his upper torso under his arms and lifted him up as Sherlock gripped his book. The curly-haired child scampered over him and laid on his stomach, opening up the book and making himself comfortable. The teen laid back down, his back facing his brother. "I don't know why you always insist on coming in my room," he muttered as he tried to locate the part he stopped reading when he helped Sherlock on the bed.

"Your room has better light," his brother responded. They laid there in silence with the occasional rustle of page-turning until the older Holmes leaned over his brother and opened the window. A soothing breeze swept through the room and ruffled Sherlock's curls. Mycroft shifted onto his back and continued to peruse his novel when he noticed his brother lying face down on his book. He twisted his torso and was about to remove the book when Sherlock suddenly asked, "Mycroft, what does it mean if someone just sits with you, reads your book, and then leaves?"

The teen raised a brow. "What? Why?"

His brother shrugged.

"Well," the older Holmes began, "I suppose that means you made a friend today, Sherlock," he said with a small smile.

* * *

John boredly rested on his right palm which was leaning on his leg. Lizzie was going on and on about something he didn't care for at all. Now, he wished that he had agreed to play rugby because anything was better than listening to her drivel. He felt the sun warming up his back and his eyelids slowly closed...

"John? Are you listening?" she asked, jolting him awake.

"Huh? What? Is it time to go?" he asked her. She gave him a look of disbelief.

John knew it wasn't time to go yet, but he stood up and stretched anyway. He swung his arms around and said, "Well, gotta go. Good bye, um, Lizzie, was it?" and scampered away as quickly as possible without looking back.

"John! John! Where are you going?" she called after him.

xxxx

The blond sighed in content as he found a patch of shade under a large oak tree on the other side of the field.

Great. Now he had to go to great lengths to avoid her, whoever she was. He wasn't ready for that kind of stuff yet. It was...kind of gross, actually.

After a moment, he noticed all the children running across the grass towards the building. He groaned. It was time to go and he didn't even get to take a nap! He reluctantly got up and slowly walked back to class.

Later that evening, John was trying to do some maths homework he had to do by tomorrow when Harriet came into his room.

"So," she began, "my friend's little sister, Lizzie, wanted to know why you ran away today."

Her brother froze in the middle of his thought and groaned for the second time that day.

"Harry, I'm not doing this right now," he told her.

She shrugged and then gave him a mischevious smile.

"Mother!" she yelled, "Johnny has a girlfriend!" Harry quickly ran out of the room.

A mix between horror and embarrassment spread across John's face.

"No I don't!" he yelled, trailing after her. "Come back here, Harry! I'm going to kill you!"

* * *

**A/N:**

_Really_ short chapter today, but don't worry. I'll make it up by either uploading another one in the next few days or making the next one longer.  
Nah, I think I'll just upload another one either today, tomorrow, Sat, or Sun. In other words, next few days.  
This wasn't going anywhere, but I thought it was cute.  
When did this stop being a character study and more of a fluffy slice of life fic? I wonder.

I know I've been doing all baby kid!Sherlock/John, but I think I'm gonna do random pieces of their childhood-teen life now.  
I was planning on going in chronological order, but who knows when I'll reach the next stages of their life?  
I fear that if I go ahead and progress, I might suddenly have the urge to write baby kid!Sherlock/John again but I wouldn't be able to because I'd've already passed it.  
So I've decided to go ahead and experiment.

Be on the look out for older John & Sherlock, as in middle school, high school, and university (and whatever the equivalent that is in British terms). :D  
Baby kid! versions won't go away, so don't worry.  
As always,

Thank you for reading! You guys are the best.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

Parallel  
Chapter 7  
Hello again

* * *

It had been quite a while since Mycroft had stopped by his home, what with graduating university, training, and what not. He often wondered how his family was doing, how his little brother, Sherlock, fared. He hadn't been quite in touch and surely his brother was what, in secondary school now? How time did fly.

He watched the buildings whiz by, flat after flat, store after store, as his private driver continued on down the road in the rain. The weather wasn't too bad. It was definitely overcast, but Mycroft had seen worse days earlier this week. The dreary atmosphere, however, was making him a bit tired. He was still a little bit jetlagged from his recent trip, although that was different story for another time. This break was indeed, well deserved. Mycroft Holmes was looking forward to spending the weekend in his old bed, his old house, and to see how much his little brother had grown. If he could recall correctly, Sherlock was a bit of a prat since the last time he visited. When had his sibling grown to be so annoying? He supposed it was just as well. His little brother, even as a little child, always seemed a bit vexatious.

As soon as his driver turned around the corner, Mycroft sat up a bit taller. There, right there, was the corner where he and Sherlock would hail down cabs. There was the newspaper stand he would stop by and have a small chat with the owner on his way to the park when he was in primary school. There was the bench he sat on when he tripped and fell and his father bought him ice cream to console him when he was a very young child. Mycroft smiled to himself, but barely noticeably. Oh how the years weathered him down. He was still young, fresh out of university. Almost. It had been a couple years. Sherlock protested to being dragged to his commencement ceremony, but nevertheless, Mycroft was glad his family was there. Yes, this visit was definitely long overdue.

The vehicle slowed down, knocking the older Holmes sibling out of his reverie.

"I believe we have arrived at your destination, sir. I shall ready your things for you," the driver said as he glanced at Mycroft through the rearview mirror. He promptly set the car in parking mode and hopped out, opening the boot at the back of the car and lifting out a single suitcase. Mycroft tugged on his gloves and grabbed his umbrella-it would be best not to forget that. As inconspicuous as it looked, it was a very important and dangerous possession of his.

"Is that everything you will be needing, sir?" the driver asked. The man was clearly older than Mycroft, perhaps by about thirty years. It was a bit odd to be spoken in such formality by a man who was old enough to be his father, but it was something he was going to have to get used to.

"Yes, that will be all. Thank you," Mycroft answered.

"Very well. I shall return promptly at 7pm on Sunday night, sir. I do hope you have an excellent stay." The man saluted and then proceeded to wait until Mycroft rolled his suitcase up the few steps over to the door and knocked.

He waited for someone to open it and watched the man drive away. The rain had started to fall harder, prompting him to knock once more in an urgent manner. Behind the door he heard a bit of muffled conversation and finally, someone was beginning to undo the lock and jiggle the doorknob open.

The front door swung wide open and Mrs. Holmes stood before the frame, arms spread out wide.

"Mycroft, my dear! You're early! Do, come in!"

"Mother. Good to see you," he responded as he hugged her. She ushered him in such a motherly way and grabbed his suitcase. "Your father's still working, but he'll be here in a few hours," she explained, "and your brother...Sherlock! Sherlock! Your brother is here!" she called upstairs. No response.

No surprise there.

"Leave him, mother. I'm sure he's busy with something, as usual," Mycroft muttered, taking off his coat and putting it on the rack next to the door. He set his wet umbrella into the small cylindrical container beside the rack and loosened his tie, following his mother down the hallway. Mrs. Holmes immediately put on a kettle and set to work, preparing all the food.

He kind of missed his home. He missed the comfort his childhood house provided. The seat he used to sit at during meals. The crack in the wall that was never fixed that was made when he and Sherlock were fighting over something. He couldn't remember what. It was a bit surreal to be back home after everything that had happened to him. He felt like a stranger.

"Why don't you go rest upstairs? I'm sure Sherlock will be happy to see you. He's been in a bit of a mood these days," his mother mentioned, breaking through his thoughts as she began chopping vegetables.

That sounded good. Mycroft left his mother to her work and walked back, dragging his black suitcase up the stairs. Sherlock's room was closed. He knocked a couple times and opened the door. Not to his surprise, the room was littered with junk. Papers, books, microscopes, and odd things here and there, but no Sherlock. He had really done a number on his room. The bed was empty. Clean and folded.

Sherlock hasn't been sleeping in his bed. He never folded his bed covers. Never.

Mycroft's room.

Mycroft groaned. Sherlock had taken up residence in his old room. Most likely due to the presence of the desktop computer. He continued down the hallway in the upper level and reached his own room. The door was slightly ajar, but there was no light. The windows provided natural light that came through the grey thunderstorm clouds. Typical. Sherlock had always liked it that way.

He gently pushed the door open and surveyed the scene before him. The computer was off. Books were scattered all over the floor. Anatomy. Biology. Chemistry. Shakespeare's _Hamlet_. Anthropology. _The Odyssey_. Oh. _Brave New World._ That was a new one. Mycroft looked over to the bed and lo' and behold, there on the bed was his little brother staring intently at this morning's newspaper.

"Long time no see, little brother," Mycroft said as he set his suitcase over to the side of the room. He began picking up all the books and setting him down on the desk as his sibling laid on his stomach, scanning the front page article. Sherlock made no attempt to acknowledge his presence until minutes later.

"Odd," he muttered.

"What?" Mycroft asked, pausing in his current endeavors to tidy up a bit.

"The shoes..."

The older Holmes sibling merely raised an eyebrow. He hadn't had time to read this morning's paper as he was bit...preoccupied this morning with his job. Training to take a small job in the British government was hard work. He had to start out small, but it was something.

Sherlock suddenly grabbed the newspaper and chucked it on the ground. He sat up and whipped his head towards his brother.

"Oh. Mycroft. When did you get here?"

His brother ignored him and took off his blazer, draping it over his old desk chair. He took off his shoes and socks.

"Move," he ordered, laying on the bed. He was tired and his body was aching. So much had happened in the past 48 hours, it was ridiculous. He was in dire need of sleep. Sherlock scooted over just a tiny bit, not really caring when his brother shoved him. He stood up on the queen-sized bed, stepping over the now young adult-Mycroft as he went to get onto the floor, and grabbed the first book on the stack his brother had created when he picked up all the books. Now tall enough to get on the bed by himself, Sherlock lifted himself by placing on knee on the bed and once again, went over Mycroft. He cracked the book open and began to read as his sibling slowly began to fall into a deep slumber.

The dark circles around his eyes were extremely dark indicating that Mycroft had little to no sleep. His clothes were kind of wrinkled, suggesting he was in them for a long time. He had a bit of a shadow on his chin. Yes. Mycroft was a workaholic.

It was odd, like stepping back in time. He and his brother had not laid in the same bed in ages, well, since he himself was a young child. He was still somewhat of a child, of course, but his brother had been away so long, he forgot what it felt like to have a mother. A suffocating one at that. After a while, he heard his brother's breathing slow down. He had fallen asleep.

Mycroft's left forearm was slung across his eyes. He must have been more exhausted than Sherlock had assumed. Oh well. He'd leave him to his slumber. He had missed Mycroft. Just a little bit. Less than 1 percent. He would never, _ever_, admit it to anyone, but he felt a bit lonely. Not that he'd ever admit _that _as well.

He had his science. And books. Alone. Alone was what protected him from everything.

* * *

John yawned, scratching his head. He really wished he had paid more attention in class that day. He stared at the white sheet of paper before him, riddled with numbers. And letters. Why were there letters in maths? He didn't understand.

The blond gave up and put it away, not wishing to even so much as take another glimpse at it. He turned off his desk lamp and got out of chair, plopping himself on his bed and stared out the window at the rain. He had a lot of work assigned. Eh. Whatever. He'll do it when it's due. Speaking of due, his sister was supposed to come over two hours ago. Typical Harry. Never keeping her promises. She was nearing her final days at university, but she was still as irresponsible as ever. Hah. Harry was probably out partying all night again, or something.

The rain was making him tired. He wanted to take a nap but he was sure Mrs. Watson would yell at him if he fell asleep and Harry came home. He was baffled that Harry actually found a university that was willing to accept her. Absolutely baffled. Harriet Watson, bringer of trouble.

John yawned again and stretched, deciding to go get some tea. His room was rather chilly. He dragged himself out of bed and walked towards the kitchen, putting a kettle on. He waited for a few moments until he heard a sudden swarm of knocking at the door.

"Harry's here, mum!" John called over his shoulder as he unlocked the door, letting his sister come in.

"Johnny!" she exclaimed, giving him a hug without taking off her raincoat.

"Hey! Stop! You're wet!" he yelled as she startled him. It was too late. She drenched him in rain water.

She giggled.

He glared.

Typical Harry.

John looked down at his clothes. Yes, his dark blue and black-striped jumper was completely wet. He peered outside behind her. It was raining extremely hard. He hadn't realized the extent of the rain. No wonder it took her a while to get here.

"Mummy!" she yelled as their mother came into view. Mrs. Watson stopped her before she could hug her.

"Take off your raincoat first, love. I don't want to look like a wet dog like John over here."

"Thanks, mother," her son muttered as he waddled off to his room for a change of clothes while Harriet began taking off her yellow rain coat. He grabbed another jumper (it was cold in their house) and tossed it on, joining his mother and sister. Mr. Watson was running late, but he had called earlier to explain.

He sat down at the kitchen table across from Harriet and rested his head on his right palm. Mrs. Watson went straight to preparing dinner.

"So, Johnny, how have you been?" Harry asked. John picked at the piece of wood sticking out of the small wooden fruit basket in the center of the table with his left hand.

"Could be better. Great now that you're not here though," he answered.

She playfully slapped his hand.

"Don't say that. You miss me, don't you?"

Yes.

"No. It's great. All nice and peaceful in the house," he answered. He did miss her a little bit, but not really. In fact, it was really nice. He got to experience how being an only child was. It didn't matter though. In a bot, he'd be off to university himself.

"Yeah, yeah. Oh, by the way mother," she turned her head towards the busy Mrs. Watson.

"Yes, dear."

"I want to introduce you to a friend of mine coming over tomorrow? She'll be needing to stay a night though," she said nervously.

"Oh, a college friend of yours?" she asked as she washed some carrots.

Harry shifted her eyes quickly to the left.

"Uh, something like that, yeah."

"Okay," was her mother's response. John squinted his eyes and looked at Harry. She was hiding something.

Harry turned back towards John.

"So, baby brother," he cringed at that, "have you found yourself a girl you fancy? Or maybe a girl that fancies you?" She laughed.

John groaned.

"Mother, did you tell her?" he asked. Mrs. Watson gave no reply, but secretly smiled to herself.

There was a girl in his grade. An annoying, clingy, stalkerish girl who claimed they were a couple starting from primary school. He didn't remember who she was and even doubted if they even went to school together.

He continued to pick at the piece of wood sticking out of the weaved pattern.

"C'mon, is she pretty?"

"Shut up."

"She is then."

"Harry, shut it."

"Well, is she stupid then? Oh wait. When has that ever deterred a man?" she sat there laughing at herself. John gave her a look. Although, that _was_ somewhat true.

It was odd, sitting there at the kitchen table and talking with his mother and sister.

"Mum, has little Johnny been a good little boy?"

"Yes, dear. Johnny has been a good little boy," Mrs. Watson responded as she set out the cups for tea from the kettle John had set out before Harry arrived. She wandered off to get some tea biscuits from the pantry as John rolled his eyes.

"So, Harry. Who's this 'friend' you're bringing home?" John asked. His sister blushed as he raised an eyebrow. Oh. _Oh._ It didn't take a genius to put two and two together. His eyes widened as he waited for her reply, but it never came. He let it go and began to pour tea for the two of them, blinking a few times in the process. After all, when her..."friend" came on Sunday, she'll be having a lot explaining to do to her parents. He couldn't believe it. I mean, he didn't have a problem with it, but wow. Shocking news, but she was old enough to do whatever she wanted. How had all the time flown by? It was quite surreal. His sister was almost done with her education and here he was, in secondary school. He had found himself thinking a lot about what he wanted to do in the future. He'll be finding himself in university pretty soon as well and that was a thought that scared him. He always fancied becoming a doctor, but now that the decision was hanging in his face, it was all becoming surreal. Utterly and absolutely.

He blew at the hot liquid in a futile attempt to get the scalding hot beverage just a tad bit cooler, and peered at his sister over the top rim of his cup. Harry had changed. She was becoming more like an adult and oddly, more like their mother as they grew older. Her hair was a brownish-blonde and her skin was smooth and ivory, just like Mrs. Watson, and her sharp nose was like an imitation of their father's. John had taken more after Mr. Watson, something he was a bit grateful for. He didn't want such feminine features like his mother or his sister or else he'd be considered a pretty boy on top of his 'mummy's boy' image. Well, in Harriet's mind anyway. His friends had only met Mrs. Watson a handful of times.

John felt the tea slide down his throat, past his chest, and into his stomach. Tea. It was the nectar of the gods. He shivered due to the remaining water on his skin he didn't know he had that his older sibling had covered him in earlier. He placed both hands on the cup to get warm. Harriet squirmed a little in her seat, clearly uncomfortable.

"I've been thinking," he suddenly blurted in an attempt to change the subject to save her from any further awkward embarrassment. Their mother would be coming in any moment and would immediately sense the weird atmosphere..

"About what?" Mrs. Watson asked. Their mother walked back in and set down a tray full of snacks and then returned to making dinner.

He looked back at her when he entered. "University," he simply stated.

Harry raised an eyebrow after taking a sip of her own tea and gave him an impressed look.

"Already, Johnny?"

He nodded.

"I think...I think I want to go into medicine."

Mrs. Watson halted in the middle of chopping potatoes and turned around, knife still in hand.

"Really, John?" she asked excitedly. Even though her son was a little bit too young to be thinking of such things, she was glad that he was already considering going into such a respectable field. Not that she wasn't proud of her daughter, but becoming a _doctor_, well, that was an excellent occupation. She dropped the knife onto the cutting board and wiped her hands on the apron she donned then clasped her hands together.

"I know, it's a bit early, but I dunno," her son said, shrugging his shoulders.

His mother was so happy, she didn't notice the water boiling beside her.

"Wait until your father comes home! He'll be so excited!" she said as she hugged John.

"Mum! The water!" Harry yelled.

"Oh dear!" Mrs. Watson exclaimed as she let her son go and reached over to turn off the stove. "Oops."

* * *

**A/N:**

Hello. I apologize profusely for the lack of update.  
I had a rather terrible weekend. Family emergencies.  
Chaos.  
I didn't have time to write anything.

This short chapter sucks. I've tried to experiment, as you can tell.  
I was going to flesh it out, but I hit a writer's block and didn't know where I wanted this to go, so I just ended it. =_= I'd rather have a short bad chapter than a long bad chapter. Lol

I hope the next one will be better now that things are under control.  
My summer class also ended, so I have more time.

Thank you for reading (even though this one absolutely sucks).


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**  
**Chapter 8**

**Maturity**

* * *

"Chin up a bit higher. Elbows up. Good, good," Shiri instructed as he watched Sherlock attempt to play a simple sonata. "You are progressing very well. You will soon be able to master the basics."

Sherlock concentrated on the music. One, two, three, four. _Mrs. Willington was cheating on her husband. That was obvious. New hair, less weight, polished ring, more makeup. Arguing with her husband on her phone during class. Lying that she stays after to tutor when clearly, she does not. _One, two, rest, four. _The janitor was stealing school supplies. _One, two, three, four, hold. And one, two, three, four. Chromatic progression. _His classmate cheated on the last test. Copied the files from the teacher's computer. Last seen by a classmate. He was tucking something in his pocket, something he pulled from the teacher's computer. A USB._ Rest, rest, three, four. One, two, three, four. Repeat. Second movement. Waltz. One, two, three. One, two, three. _Mycroft has been awfully busy_._ Wonder if he's actually even in England._ One, two, three. Two, two, three. One, two, three, two, two, three.

"Stop, stop. Sherlock, why are you so distracted?" Shiri asked, shaking his grey curls. He stopped tapping his small, thin, wooden baton on the black metal stand that was in front of him. Sherlock snapped out of the music and lowered his violin and bow to his side.

"The music is clarifying," he answered. Shiri shook his head.

"That is excellent, yes, but we must concentrate on the _music_ for now. Sherlock, do you understand what the purpose of music is?" he asked.

_What an odd question,_ the younger Holmes thought. "Music is combining notes and harmony in order to create a series of melodies."

"No, Sherlock. That is only part of the answer," his teacher replied.

The boy tilted his head.

"I don't understand."

Shiri sighed, rubbing his arm. His arthritis was acting up due to the rainy weather.

"That is all for today. I want you to go home and return only when you have the answer. I cannot continue to teach you the basics when you don't understand the concept itself. You will never be able to compose if you don't understand."

Sherlock grabbed a cloth and wiped down the instrument before carefully placing the Stradivarius back in the glass case.

"That is the only logical answer, Shiri. How else can one define music?" he asked.

"You'll understand in due time, Sherlock," the shopkeeper said, smiling as he walked to the backroom, leaving a very disconcerted Sherlock to ruminate.

* * *

"John, hurry up. I'm next, so bowl quickly," Nathan quipped at the daydreaming boy sitting next to him.

The blond snapped back to reality, grimacing at the smell of feet, popcorn, and the sound of terrible music blasting away in the speakers above them. He stood up from the plastic chair and slipped on the floor. The bowling shoes he was wearing had reduced the friction between his shoe and the ground very much so. He stuck his fingers in the hole of the 12 pound bowling ball, walked up, and tossed it, attempting to maintain good form.

Two pins were knocked over. He turned around to laughter as his mates all cackled at his lack of bowling skills. Honestly, he'd rather have a heavier ball, but the only one left was a 12-pound, which wasn't quite that bad. He let his friends choose first, preferring to stand back and wait until they were situated. He was just that kind of person.

The lane reset the pins for his second try, clearing away the two he managed to knock down. He waited for his bowling ball to come back through the machine, grabbing it when it finally did.

"Come on, come on," he muttered to himself. He bent his elbow and squatted a bit, swung his arm, walking towards the lane, simultaneously letting the ball go and-

"-Spare! I got a spare!" he shouted. All but Nathan groaned.

"My turn!" Nathan chirped, jumping up from his seat. John took his spot and watched his friends play. It had been a long day, two exams, two projects due, and three quizzes. It was as if his teachers all held secret meetings to choose a date where they all gave massive amounts of homework, projects, and tests. The teachers that doubled an examination date with the due date of a project were particularly irritating. Secondary school was not his cup of tea.

Thus, he and his friends had decided to start the weekend off on a good note.

"Yeah! Strike!" Nathan said excitedly.

John wasn't the greatest bowler on Earth, but he wasn't quite terrible...was he?

At that moment, someone called out his name.

"Johnny!"

The blond groaned. That voice belonged to none other than-

"-Harry? What are you doing here?" he asked as he turned around to face the entrance. It was pretty far. Her voice carried extremely well, but being the good brother, he stood up and walked up to her. His sister had been away in university for the longest time; so long, in fact, that the last time she visited was...well, he couldn't remember.

Harriet Watson stopped waving and made a sheepish face. "Uh, well. About that. Don't tell mum and dad until tonight. I'll swing by tomorrow."

John gave her a confused face and watched as his sister told her friend to get them a couple pints and to grab a lane.

"Wait. Where are you staying tonight?"

His sister's face turned a bit red, but it was very subtle so he brushed it off thinking it was nothing.

"Well, at a friend's, of course," she replied to her baby brother, stretching his cheeks out. He knew she preferred women as opposed to men, but he was too young to understand what a relationship was. In her mind, he will always be her baby brother.

"Stop it," John ordered. She was really annoying.

Harry laughed and hugged him.

"I just missed you, you know," she answered.

* * *

Sherlock laid on his bed with his arms supporting his head, his elbows jutting out. He didn't bother to change; he merely tossed off his coat, throwing it on the edge of the mattress and taking off his socks.

_What is the purpose of music_? he wondered.

He didn't want to admit it, but it was times like this when he needed Mycroft to tell him. To call, or not to call, that was the question.

Definitely not calling.

Sherlock stopped thinking and got off his bed. He walked to his bookshelf and rummaged through the multitudes of books he had.

_Hamlet_. As much as he'd like to reread that, he wasn't in the mood. _A Picture of Dorian Gray._ No. _The Holy Bible_. No. _The Art of Looking Sideways._

He sighed. He didn't need a book, he needed an answer.

Shiri said himself that he refused to teach Sherlock until he understood the 'concept', or whatever that was. He didn't understand. He had been developing excellent technical skill. Yes, Shiri would not allow Sherlock to take the violin home to practice, but that only spurred him to visit him even more often. Yes, he was still a beginner, but he wasn't as bad. His fingers moved quickly, never mind the shopkeeper's continuous need to correct his form and posture.

In fact, when he first started, he practiced so hard he developed rashes from the chin rest irritating his neck (of course, children at school absolutely rolled at the sight and assumed it was something called a 'hickey', whatever that was) and his fingers nearly bled. Shiri had to kick him out and tell him to rest, forcing him to skip the next lesson. He was dedicated. Why could the man not see that?

The rain had begun to fall, hitting his window which he accidentally left a little bit open. Water was coming into his room, but he didn't care. On second thought, his mother would have a fit. Sherlock forced himself to go get a towel to wipe off the water and then closed the window. He turned to his stereo and put in a CD. Chopin's Nocturne in E flat Major No. 9 Op. 2 started flowing through the speakers. He laid down and watched his fan move ever so slightly due to the force of the air being dispersed through the vents in his ceiling as he listened to the soothing piano melody and the soft pitter-patter of the window. For once, he didn't think. He listened.

* * *

"Come on, come on," John repeated as he watched his ball roll down the alley. He was doing pretty well in his opinion. Ten frames: three strikes, one spare, and 8, and a 2. Four more frames to go.

He watched as he made a split. Cue the laughter from his friends.

"Gah!" John waited for his ball to come back and tried again. He did a beautiful curve, hit one pin, but unfortunately, there really was nothing to do for the second one.

"Better luck next time, Watson!" one of his friends called out.

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. You're up, Nathan," he tapped the boy who was staring at someone across the giant room while sipping on coke through a straw which clearly had a hole somewhere in it. The liquid wasn't coming out as strongly which resulted in a rather loud slurping noise.

"You need a new straw," John mentioned.

"Huh? Oh, right. Yeah," he said as he stood, getting ready to take his turn. John took his spot again, but glanced over at the direction his friend was staring at. He didn't see anything. Just a bunch of random people enjoying their game. Who had he been staring so intensely at?

The blond shrugged it off and decided to see what his sister was up to. He hadn't really played bowling with sister, now that he thought about it. Odd.

John stood up and took a step, slipped and fell on the ground. Hard.

Embarrassing.

His friends, half laughing, half concerned crowded around him, asking him if he was alright as he stared at the ceiling in a daze. He had just gotten the wind knocked out and it took a moment to catch his breath.

"Are you okay? John! Haha!" he heard them echo around him.

"STRRRIIKKKE!" Nathan yelled pumping his arms until he turned around.

"Oh God. Watson! What happened? You alright?" he said as he hurried over.

"Y-yeah," John breathed out. "Just give me a second," he said as he blinked repeatedly. He saw double-vision which caused him to be extremely dizzy.

The bodies around him dispersed, giving him room. The blond tried to get up. He set one hand on his bent knee and pushed, standing up. He rubbed his head. That had _really_ hurt.

"Johnny!" he heard Harry's voice get louder as she approached him from the opposite side of the lanes.

* * *

Oh good God.

He didn't know what to think of the music.

What was this...feeling? His body felt light, almost weightless. But that was incorrect. Bodies cannot be weightless.

The song changed to Chopin's Nocturne Op. 9 No. 1. The CD was burned, so the song order was not quite accurate. Sherlock just put a bunch of favorites of his and tossed them onto a CD (something Mycroft actually did because his brother had no knowledge, nor want of knowledge, on how to do it), These piano melodies were quite breath taking. It reminded him of the times he sat and just marveled at the beauty of the stars, perhaps not the context one might think, but sometimes, he happened to glance up at the night sky and catch a glimpse of the universe, a sight he appreciated very much, to no one's knowledge.

After that song was complete, Winter, by Vivaldi, _Il Prete Rosso_, or the red-headed priest played, prompting the boy to turn the volume up. Now this, this violin music was what he wanted to achieve in the technique department. The sixteenth notes. Crisp. Clean. Clear. What did Shiri mean by there being another meaning to the purpose of music if not for perfection? Sherlock didn't understand.

He became angry. Why wouldn't the man just tell him? Sherlock was _definitely_ not used to being unable to figure something out.

Sherlock grabbed his coat, not caring about the rain, and decided to confront him. He raced down the stairs without a word to his mother, hailed a cab as the rain poured down on him, drenching him from head to toe. He had foregone the socks which made his bare feet absolutely freezing in his black loafers.

A taxi stopped and Sherlock scrambled in.

* * *

"John! Are you alright? Are you hurt? What happened?" Harriet grabbed him and checked him all over, turning him around and around (which didn't help his nausea at all). His classmates left the Watson siblings to themselves and continued the game.

Contrary to how a teenage adolescent might react, John was rather cool-headed. He didn't get angry that his sister was embarrassing him, no, not at all.

"I'm fine, Harry. Just had a bit of a slip, that's all."

If this were a few years ago, Harry would have sat and laughed.

"Hahaha! Bloody moron. Good. You're fine."

Scratch that. Harry hadn't changed a bit.

"Come, Johnny. I'll buy you a coke," she said, leading him away as he waved to his friends in order to tell someone to just use up his frames. Nathan looked glad he had some extra practice shots when the older Watson sibling noticed her brother was rubbing his head.

"God, my head hurts," he muttered, blinking his eyes and squinting.

Harry felt the back of his head, her fingers grazing a huge bump. Her eyes widened and John grimaced at her touch.

"I think I have a bruise," he said.

"I think you have a concussion!" Harry cried. She ordered a coke and asked for a bag of ice at the same time.

The large man behind the counter silently handed the items to her and she immediately placed the bag of ice on his head with one hand while trying to fish out money from her purse with the other.

"I got it, Harry," John said as he held onto the ice so his sister could pay.

Now, Harriet was no doctor, but she could be paranoid at times.

"John, don't fall asleep," she ordered, poking him. "I'm coming home tonight."

John groaned. It was just his luck. He knew exactly how it would pan out: his sister would poke him awake every time she thought he was sleeping even though he just had a bump and not a concussion. Typical Harry.

"You know, I'm alright. You can go...spend time with your, uh, friend. I'm not Johnny anymore. And if I had a concussion, I would be confused. I'm fine, Harry," he said in an effort to get her to leave him alone tonight.

Harry, concerned, began to protest. "But-"

"-No, Harry. I'm fine. All I need is ice, alright?" he said, finally convincing her.

"And maybe some aspirin," he added rubbing his right temple with his free right hand.

* * *

Sherlock knew the brokerage was open even though it was time to close. The lights were on at the front window display and he knew Shiri usually turned it off when he locked the door. The frustrated teen grabbed the handle and walked right in, alerting the owner to his presence.

"Welco-ah, Sherlock. Have an answer so soon?" he asked with a smile.

Sherlock stood at the entrance while his coat dripped onto the mat at the front, still wet from the rain. His hair, a mess of a dark colored mop, was drenched with water and hung low, sticking to his head.

"Look. Music is music. I don't know what answer you want, but the only rational explanation of what the purpose of music is is that it's music. A collection of notes and harmonies to create a melody in which people relate to, I assume."

"Ah, now that answer, is as close as I think I can get you to be," the old man said. "You see, young Sherlock, you are not outside of 'people'. Do not exclude yourself."

The ruly-haired teen didn't quite catch what the old man meant.

"Your word choice," Shiri explained to his faintly quizzical expression. His student had a weird habit of looking deadpan sometimes (in his opinion, almost to the point where it's comical). "You, Sherlock. Why do you wish to learn the violin?"

That question took him aback. Why did he want to learn?

"Simply because it's clarifying. When I play, I think. And my mind is at ease."

"And why do you wish to think clearly? What drives you, young Holmes?"

"I...the truth," he responded honestly. He had no clue where that answer had come from.

"Ah, so you see, Sherlock, the truth is what frees your mind. Music, you see, is the extension of your soul."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"That's preposterous. We don't have souls."

"On the contrary," was the Jewish man's reply. "We use the instrument, the vehicle, in which we express our emotions and desires. Without your soul, music is nothing. When you hear a raindrop, do you not feel the music? Feel connected, as one with nature?"

The teen had half a mind to leave as the man was making no sense. He thought Shiri was going a bit senile. What was this nonsense he was talking about?

"One day, young Sherlock, you will feel great joy. Love. Hope. Sadness. Fear. Loneliness. Great heartache. And on that day, you will understand the true purpose of music."

* * *

**A/N:**

Hello all!  
It's weird. I do well on Parallel and do poorly on The Good Doctor and vice versa. Never a homerun. haha  
I personally do like this chapter even though I think the beginning chapters were stronger.  
Sorry if dislike that I thrusted my nerdy classical love at you. Lol And my philosophies. But I think it's a good medium to show different kinds of maturity.  
John goes through maturity by understanding and patience. He's very loyal, an aspect I love most about him.  
Sherlock fails to understand emotional maturity, but wishes to do so. He kind of gets it, but doesn't know, and kind of wants to (example: him not wanting to lose John as a friend).

God. Reichenbach feelings bubbling to the surface.  
Stop it.

I'm a depressing person. Hahaha

Thank you so much for reading :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss**

Parallel  
Chapter 9

Homicide

* * *

Sherlock sleepily wandered downstairs, rubbing his eyes with his small hands. His mother and father were nowhere to be found, presumably out on some errand, leaving Mycroft to babysit his younger sibling. Still clad in his pajamas, the older Holmes was lounging on the couch across the screen. His eyes were kind of glazed, like he was looking at the device before him, but paying little attention. Sherlock, not really one for watching television, glanced at the screen as a policeman rolled out yellow 'caution' tape and caught the words 'murder' and 'investigation'. Being as young as he was, he didn't quite understand what was going on, but brushed it off, heading towards his brother on the couch.

His stomach grumbled as he stood in front of Mycroft who was laying down, his head propped up by his arm. Sherlock reached out a hand and tugged at his brother's shirt. Startled, Mycroft jolted his head out of his daydreaming and turned his head to look up at the small child.

"Oh, you're awake. Mum and dad went out. I don't really know where, but nonetheless, they probably won't be back for a while," he said.

Sherlock didn't really care. He just wanted food.

"I'm hungry," he stated, staring at Mycroft pointedly.

His brother yawned and stretched, sitting up.

"Get washed up. I think there's a box of pancake mix in the pantry," he ordered, shooing the younger Holmes back up the stairs to wash his face and brush his teeth.

Sherlock, whose small body was still a bit sleep deprived (he had had a long night playing pirates) trudged up the stairs and dutifully listened, not because he really wanted to, but because if he didn't listen, Mycroft wouldn't give him food and right now, Sherlock was ravenous.

The young boy slowly walked upstairs to the bathroom and stood on his tiptoes, attempting to look over the sink. Yes, Mycroft constantly told him to use the stool that was placed by the bathtub, but Sherlock didn't feel like dragging it over. He grabbed a small towel and placed it on the counter space just shy of the sink and leaned as far as he could, his fingers barely reaching the sink knob to turn it on. His eyes peered over the countertop as he located his toothbrush. It was in a cup, the bristles leaning against Mycroft's toothbrush. He grimaced at the thought of all the germs transferring over to his. Regardless, it was the only toothbrush he had, so there was no choice left but to use it. He reached for the container which was directly in front of the mirror next to the leftmost water knob. He tried to grab his toothbrush, but his short arms could not reach the distance. Grunting, he hoisted himself up on by pushing his body upwards by using the cabinet doors below the sink with his toes and balancing on his arms and elbows. He quickly grabbed it, knocking the cup over entirely in accident.

He jumped back down and rummaged the countertop for the tube of toothpaste. He successfully grabbed it and began spreading a generous amount onto the bristles. Sherlock gripped the end of the brush and ran the head under the water and began brushing his teeth. After about a good few minutes, he cleaned off his toothbrush and spat the foam in the sink, once more, jumping up and leaning on his arms. It was a rather cumbersome task, and in retrospect, using the stool probably would have taken less effort, but Sherlock wasn't like normal people. He did want he wanted.

After rinsing out his mouth, he almost turned off the faucet when he remembered that he needed to wash his face, so he splashed some water on and reached for the soap which was situated next to the fallen cup. Obviously, Mycroft had used it earlier, so the bar was still wet. It took him several attempts to get a hold of the slippery soap, so he ended up rubbing his fingers on it and then lathering it all over his face. After rinsing the soap off, he finally turned off the sink and grabbed the towel in front of him, drying his face. The sink in front of him was free of water which was precisely the reason why he had put the towel there in the first place. Sherlock was a logical, but sometimes lazy, thinker so he thought ahead to avoid doing more work.

Not really caring, he left the small handtowel on the sink and hurried downstairs, his hunger increasing with each step. The smell of pancakes wafted from the kitchen, the smell getting stronger as he bounded down the stairs towards his brother.

Mycroft, clad in an apron covered in flour and batter, was pushing off a single pancake from the frying pan with a spatula, coaxing it onto a stack of some he had already made. Sherlock walked over to the table and pulled out the tall chair he always sat in. He climbed up and grabbed a fork, waiting for his empty plate to be filled so he could start eating. His brother put the frying pan in the sink along with a bowl covered with batter and a whisk and followed Sherlock's example by sitting down. He had forgotten to take off the apron and hadn't noticed.

Mycroft took two pancakes and set them down on his brother's plate who already had the bottle of syrup in hand. The dark-haired child slathered on the sugary substance and jabbed an entire hot cake with his fork, attempting to take a bite before Mycroft caught sight and scolded him. The older Holmes leaned over and cut the pancakes into bite sized squares which his brother gobbled up.

"After eating, get ready to go out. I have to meet someone soon," he told his brother.

"Can't I just stay home, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, almost whining.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"No."

And that was that.

* * *

"John, dear, come eat," his mother called through the hallway. Harry was still sleeping, but Mrs. Watson knew her son was awake because he usually eagerly woke up on the weekends to watch a bit of Saturday morning telly. Mr. Watson had already left for the golf course and Mrs. Watson had woken up early to see him off, so it was just the three of them at home.

John was in the middle of brushing his teeth when his mother called, so he hastily finished washing up.

"Coming," he said, a mouth full of foamy toothpaste.

He noticed that he had gotten water everywhere on the counter and almost cleaned it up when he changed his mind, not really caring because it was just water, and walked out and into the kitchen where his mother had set out toast and jam. Next to his empty plate was an empty cup, ready to be filled with piping hot tea.

The weather was getting cooler as summer dwindled down into fall. The leaves were already changing into vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. John didn't really like when the weather was cold; he preferred sunny days and warm breezes as opposed to chilly winds and ghastly grey, overcast skies, but that didn't mean he hated the colder seasons. Mrs. Watson had a habit of taking John shopping for new clothes at the first sign of chilly weather, always excited at the prospect of dressing up her little boy. Her daughter, Harriet, had long since ceased letting her mother entertain herself by dragging the Watson siblings around London for a new wardrobe. John, as much as he hated it, knew his mother loved buying small, festive jumpers and dressing him up, so every year, he gritted his teeth and bore it. After all, she had to stop some day, right? In the meanwhile, he would let Mrs. Watson do whatever she wanted to her heart's content. She always doted on Harry, but when John came along and his sister began to refute her attempts to spoil her, she turned her attention to little Johnny who didn't quite _want _the attention, but let her have her way.

His mother quietly sipped her tea as she watched John munch happily on his piece of toast. John picked up the butterknife located to his right and cut a bit of butter from the long rectangle, placing it on a piece of toast. He attempted to spread it evenly, but unfortunately for him, failed as the butter melted quickly in the center which the bread quickly absorbed. After being satisfied with what he could do with the butter, John tried to lift out some of his favorite jam from the jar which proved to be a bit more difficult than he thought. At first, he stuck the knife in, hoping to jab it in and lift up some of the strawberry preservative, but only a little bit was stuck to the knife. He continued his endeavor by stretching out his right arm, barely grazing the edge of the open container. With his fingers, he managed to tip it over, but he still couldn't reach the jar, so instead, he clumsily scooped some of the jam up from its toppled position on the table. Of course, the condiment had gotten all over his fingers and the table, but he didn't care. He spread quite a bit of it on his bread regardless and began munching away.

Mrs. Watson continued to watch her son, amused by his antics. Most days, she would've spread it on the bread for him herself, but sometimes, it was best to let your child learn independence. She didn't want to smother him, after all. She continued to observe John as he held the toast at such an acute angle from his mouth, the jam was beginning to slide off and land on the table which was already splattered, but he didn't notice. The blond child sat there, happily munching away and smiled at his mother who smiled back. He wasn't quite a morning person, but sometimes, like on the weekends, he would be wide awake early at the crack of dawn and excited to begin the day with the promise of morning cartoons the television displayed every week without fail. Little John quickly scarfed down several bites (almost choking in the process to which Mrs. Watson promptly gave him a glass of orange juice), and scooted off the chair, practically skipping to the television.

As his mother grabbed a wet dish towel to clean the messy table, she shook her head and smiled, wishing her little boy would stay little forever.

* * *

"No, I don't want to, Mycroft," Sherlock almost whined as his older brother began stuffing him into a very large coat. He looked like a giant blueberry. "It's not that cold outside."

Mycroft tutted. "Yes it is. And if you get sick, that's on me, now quit moving so I can button you up," he ordered to the squirming child.

After successfully getting the coat on his little brother, Mycroft Holmes straightened up and buttoned his own coat. They walked out the front door and the young boy locked it with a satisfying click, noticing his younger sibling involuntarily let out a tiny shiver. He smirked and then turned to his brother, holding out his hand to a defiant Sherlock who refused to take it, but Mycroft grabbed his small hand anyway. The two Holmes brothers walked down the street, hand in hand as the older Holmes sibling dragged his brother along after promising to meet up with his friends earlier that week. After about ten minutes of uneventful traveling, they passed a large group of people huddled around something that was obstructed from view.

Sherlock tugged at their intertwined hands, indicating he wanted a look. "What going on, Mycroft?"

As neither of them weren't tall enough to look over the heads of the adults, they moved closer.

"I dunno, Sherlock."

Curious himself, Mycroft picked his baby brother up and carried him, not wanting him to be trampled. People were leaving, which cleared a space for them to see. The older sibling squinted, barely making out the lines of yellow caution tape which were spread along what looked to be a crime scene as more people left, putting the entire view available for observation to Mycroft. He could see policemen and a young man, and a detective who was saying things as the young man began furiously jotting it down, then he noticed the police vehicles. It was hard to miss as the lights were on, flashing away even though the sirens were silent.

There on the ground, he saw what looked to be a dead body, a blonde woman with a huge gash that ran across her jugular. The grass around her head was stained red with blood. The dead woman was laying in a pool. Of her own _blood._ With a gasp, he quickly covered his brother's eyes who immediately made a noise of protest.

"No, let me see, Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaimed as he used his tiny hands to tug at Mycroft's hands.

"No, you can't. It's not appropriate," he said, leading them away from the crime scene.

It was too late anyhow. Sherlock had seen everything in full view.

"Was that lady dead, Mycroft? Wasn't that on the telly?" he asked.

Still carrying his brother, the young boy kept moving away until he reached the other side of the street and set his sibling down, grasping his hand again. He wasn't quite awake when Sherlock walked into the area where Mycroft was kind of sleeping, so he didn't know if that was on the news, but it most likely was.

"Yes, Sherlock, but whatever you do, don't tell mummy what we saw today." Mycroft gulped at the thought of their mother having a fit. Such scenes were not to be seen in her precious sons' eyes and she would surely take it out on the older sibling and _that_ was something he didn't look forward to.

"What happened? Who was that man with the notebook?" Sherlock pestered. Mycroft knew he had no choice but to answer if he wanted his brother to shut up.

"Some bad person killed the lady and the man with the notebook was probably a detective," he answered.

He groaned when that led to more questions.

"Why is it bad? And what's a detective?"

As they passed an ice cream store, Mycroft halted.

"Look, if I buy you ice cream, will you stop asking me questions?"

His brother nodded his head which immediately prompted Mycroft to whisk him into the store.

A few minutes later, they continued down the street, still holding hands, and licking their ice cream cones. The older sibling had refused to switch sides, choosing to take the side of the pavement closer to the road as a precaution. As a result, they awkwardly held their cones with their left hands, Mycroft with vanilla and Sherlock with chocolate respectively. Even though it was cold, Mycroft had always thought ice cream tasted better and it was _never_ a bad time for ice cream. Not at all.

"So...why is killing bad? And what's a detective?" Sherlock brought up.

Mycroft stopped eating and glared at his brother who happily continued to eat his own dessert, but fully aware he had just broken their agreement. Mycroft had no choice but to answer his annoying little brother.

"Killing is bad because when you murder someone, you're taking their life without their permission. They don't exist anymore in the world. It's the detective's job to find out what happened and to catch the bad man or woman who did that. He's like a policeman, but his job is to figure out the puzzle," Mycroft slowly explained.

For some reason, the younger Holmes was brimming with curiosity. He didn't understand quite fully, but the entire prospect of a puzzle game was exciting. He stopped asking questions and let Mycroft drag him along to wherever his friends were waiting.

* * *

John, still a bit tired from the lack of sleep, lounged on the couch, his eyes glued to the telly. For some reason, he wasn't as interested in the cartoons they were playing that morning. Well, except for his favorite shows, but he had already seen them about an hour ago. There was nothing to watch, so he grabbed the remote and flipped through the channel.

He stopped on a news program, a rare thing for him to do. All that adult talk was boring, but he heard the words 'murder' and 'crime scene' and couldn't help but to watch as his interest peaked. The screen was showing a man wheeling a body bag into a black coroner's van and the lady on the telly began asking a young man whom they called 'detective inspector' questions about what had happened in front of yellow tapes that were strung along a patch of land, the words "caution" flapping in the wind. John didn't really understand what the man was saying as he kept using big words and words he'd never heard before and tried to memorize what he was saying so he could ask his mother.

The front door opened and shut as Mr. Watson came home early, presumably because he had heard it was going to rain. As he greeted his wife and walked on through to the living room, he spotted his son who was rapt with attention and glanced at the television.

"John, what are you watching there?" he asked, setting down his golf bag, a bit surprised that his youngest was awake at this hour. Mr. Watson always worked on the weekdays and was tired or busy either with friends or working back at the hospital on the weekends, so he didn't get to spend as much time with John and Harriet as he would have liked.

The small blond child turned his head and looked up at his father.

"Dad, what's a 'homicide'?" he asked.

Mr. Watson raised his eyebrows. "Uh, what are you watching there, son?" he reiterated, slightly worried. Mrs. Watson was in the kitchen so John could have been watching something very inappropriate without her knowing. He glanced at the screen and noticed his boy was watching something on the news. With one glance he recognized it as a crime scene somewhere in London. The reporter on scene was interviewing the lead detective while a young man, presumably a sergeant was loitering around behind him, unsure of what to do. After the blonde woman said her thanks, the Inspector turned and called the man over. A faint 'Lestrade!' was heard just before the camera cut off and returned to the news station.

"Oh," he said, racking his brain on how to best explain the situation to his very impressionable child. "Um, a homicide is when a bad man or woman hurts and kills someone else on purpose," he explained.

John, who was sitting on the floor with his knees drawn up to his chest, began playing with his toes.

"Oh. Okay," he said without pushing further. His father raised an eyebrow again, a bit worried his son _wasn't_ asking more about it.

"John, murdering someone is bad. Very bad. It's not right and the bad person who did that always gets caught. Remember that," he added, trying to create a life lesson even though he knew his son was least likely to grow up and murder people like a psychopath.

"I know. The bad man never wins," John said, grinning. He stood up to go wake Harry up to play, his father feeling rather proud at that moment.

* * *

**A/N:**

Oh God.  
I apologize for not updating in like two weeks and then coming up with this short, lame one shot. LOL  
I've been having major writer's block.  
And I know, their lives are probably not _that_ 'parallel' but sometimes it's interesting to see their reactions to the same thing.  
I hope you enjoyed it, none less! I know I did.

John, Sherlock, and Mycroft are a bit younger than what I've written so far.  
Don't you love manipulative baby Sherlock? hahaha

**Thank you** so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; this particular version belongs to Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss_

**Parallel**  
Chapter 10

Examinations

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The hands on the clock continued its relentless abuse as John stared blankly at the examination in front of him.

_What were the German submarines commonly referred to as in the First World War?_

What?

_The war commenced on which date?_

John's palms began to sweat.

_Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria was assassinated by a nationalist of which country on said date?_

He peeked around the room to see how his other classmates were doing.

_Which countries formed the Allies?_

Everyone was busy scribbling down answers while John stared at an empty test, the only thing written on it: his name. He didn't even know what the date was.

_Which countries formed the Central Powers?_

Why did he have to learn history?

_What was the German response to the British naval blockade?_

It definitely wouldn't do him any good in the future.

_What was the name of the passenger ship that carried both British and Americans and was destroyed by the Germans, prompting an unprecedented response by the Americans and subsequently building on their decision to enter the war?_

Really, he didn't quite care, but if he didn't answer at least one question, he would be turning in a blank test. John looked up at the clock. There was thirty minutes left. Thirty minutes.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

He looked back down when he caught the eye of his teacher.

_Ignoring the Convention of Hauges, what military tactic did the Germans use?_

John got excited. He knew this one. He wrote down 'chlorine gas' and moved on to the next question.

_The British used which military vehicle for the first time in the Battle of Flers-Courcelette?_

Oh! He knew this one as well! He hastily scribbled down 'tanks' and read the final question.

_A Yugoslav-nationalist assassinated whom on June 28, 1914, thereby starting the war?_

John did a double take. Did this question just answer two of the ones he failed to answer? He looked back and read, giddy that his teacher had not realized the mistake she had made. Or perhaps she did that on purpose to help her students? Nah. She would never do that. He went back and answered the respective questions, also writing in 'Archduke Franz Ferdinand' for the last answer as taken from the first question.

"Psst. Hey, John," he heard someone whispers. He looked up at his teacher to check if she was watching (which she was not; her head was bobbing up and down as she began to nod off to sleep). After making sure the final nod was indeed the final nod, he turned around to see who was calling him.

'_What'd you get for number two?' _a classmate mouthed as he held up his right index and middle finger in a 'V' shape to visualize the number he was asking about. John squinted his eyes and looked back down to his test. It was the question whose answer was embedded within question ten. He turned back around and lifted his hands and showed him the number ten very quickly, his eyes darting back and forth from between the teacher and his friend.

His classmate furrowed his brows, a look of confusion crossing his face. He gave an unspoken response of, _'Huh?'_, probably thinking that the blond meant the answer was 10.

John licked his lips, preparing to look like an idiot by pantomiming what he was trying to get across. _Look at number ten, _he mouthed as he pointed to the test, then to number ten.

His classmate still didn't understand. The boy shook his head and reiterated that he was asking about number two. John hit his forehead with his palm. What an idiot.

_'Just tell me,'_ the boy mouthed. John wasn't one for cheating; it was wrong, so he refused to flat out give the answer. He didn't want to get caught and each second spent trying to accommodate his idiotic friend meant a greater possibility for him getting caught for no reason at all. He'd rather take half points than none which he was bound to receive if the teacher woke up. His other mates hadn't noticed she was in deep slumber. A few of the smart ones were already done, but they laid with their heads down on their arms, taking a nap themselves.

He turned back towards the classmate whom he was acquaintances with, but not quite best mates and shook his head. If he did not understand John's hint, than that was entirely his fault. It was evident the boy was getting angry to which John was getting angry at. How dare he get furious for John's seeming refusal to help? He gave him the answer, just not directly.

"Ahem. John, what are you doing?" a voice asked above his head. He turned his body back around and raised his neck to face his teacher who had woken from her short slumber. Everyone's heads turned to watch.

"Nothing," he answered truthfully. At the moment, he really was doing nothing.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I was just telling Ethan I was on number ten, you know, to get a sense of pacing."

"Right," she responded, not believing him. However, since this _was _John Watson, a nice boy who never gave her too much trouble, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She glanced at Ethan, a troublemaker who grated on her nerves every day. "Ethan, stop bothering John and leave him alone or else I will take your test and give you failing marks."

"But-"

"-No buts," she interrupted his whine. He turned red (John wasn't sure if it was out of anger, or out of embarrassment due to the entire class looking at the spectacle), and lowered his head.

The examination period went on as normal. The teacher was rummaging through her drawers, bent down and out of view. John felt something small hit his head and a small paper ball landed on the floor. He picked it up and read the scribbling on the paper.

_ "You're dead, Watson."_

He didn't need to turn around to know who it was from.

* * *

"Sherlock, why aren't you working on your test?" his teacher asked the young boy who stuck out amongst his other classmates who were busily scribbling away. The quiet, lithe boy shrugged his shoulders and stared into the space in front of him. Frankly, he didn't care about astronomy and what the difference between the heliocentric theory and the geocentric theory was. He hadn't studied and didn't bother attempting to at all. He was busy fending Mycroft off of him as he tried to work on an experiment. Mycroft and his big nose-literally-always getting into his business. He scoffed, returning back to his exam.

Hm. Surely one was about the earth, geo deriving from the Greek origin of the word 'earth'. Helio, that would easily be from the Greek word helios, meaning sun. Centric, obviously meaning center of.

Oh.

Sherlock wrote down the answer based on the logical thread he followed. Now, for the second question:

_Which theory is scientifically correct?_

This one was a fifty-fifty percentage of failure. He wrote one down, not really caring if he did get it right or wrong. Geocentric, he supposed, whatever 'scientifically correct' meant in absolutely no context given. Sherlock never was one to care for school and grades. In his opinion, the pursuit of knowledge shouldn't be tainted by the attempt to measure one's knowledge by points. What an absolutely absurd idea, he thought.

_Who was the astronomer who proposed the geocentric theory?_

_What is the geocentric theory commonly known as?_

How was he supposed to know? He didn't feel like cheating. The idiots in this class probably didn't know anything anyway. Sherlock didn't like memorizing things that wasted space in his head. If it had no use to him, it was no use at all.

_Who refuted that theory with the theory we now believe today?_

Boring.

Without giving a single glance to the rest of his test, Sherlock grabbed it and handed the mostly blank examination to his teacher. The man stared at his student, raising an eyebrow. He took it and flipped the top page to look at the one underneath.

"Sherlock, there's virtually nothing written on here," he said.

The boy in front of him merely shrugged.

"No point in attempting if I clearly know I don't know it. Now, if you'll excuse me I'm going to the library," he replied and promptly walked away, grabbing his books in the process. The other students watched as he left his teacher in a slightly shocked state. None of his students ever walked out of his class before.

He closed his slightly gaping mouth. "Sh-Sherlock, come back here this instant!" he called to a closing door. Too late.

Sherlock walked down the empty hallway. He was well aware of that fact that any student caught loitering would be punished, but he didn't care at all. School was somewhere Mycroft forced him to go. Well, his mother really, but Mycroft was the one who _actually_ made sure he went, dragging him into the building every day. Somehow he managed to check in on him out of nowhere at the most random times. Luckily, it wasn't long until his brother left for university.

He headed towards the library when he heard heels clicking on the tile behind him. "Student, do you have a pass to be out in the halls?" Sherlock turned around to face the teacher. "Oh, it's you Holmes. What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be in class? Show me your pass," Mrs. Fowler ordered. She pushed up her horn-rimmed glasses with her fingers, the perfectly polished pink nails glinting in the light above them. Sherlock made a show of reaching into his pocket, realizing his 'pass' wasn't there, and shuffling through his things.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Fowler, but I seemed to have misplaced my things. You see, Mr. Atkins gave me a pass to the library because I had finished my exam quite early. Perhaps the stress of studying for it made me a bit absent-minded. I'm terribly sorry," he answered as he nearly teared up. Sherlock had noticed her usually clean-pressed clothes were a bit rumpled and her breath reeked of coffee. She had bags underneath her eyes indicating that she had stayed up late. As hard as she tried to look awake, she just couldn't get past his sharp eyes; the young boy knew she wasn't up for a fight and would try to avoid a confrontation at all costs.

The brunette woman tutted and fixed her bun, attempting to smooth down her stray, wispy hair as she attempted to suppress a yawn. If this Holmes was anything like his brother, his words should be taken into consideration, she thought. "Well, Holmes, I'll let you go this time with a warning, but make sure it doesn't happen again," she ordered as she walked on.

Sherlock gave her a grateful smile and watched her turn the corner. The moment she disappeared from view, he dropped the expression and boredly turned around, wandering towards the library. That was extremely easy, he thought to himself, that is, until he felt a hand grip his shoulder. Tightly.

* * *

"So, Watson. Trying to fail me, eh? Did that on purpose, didn't you?" Ethan griped as he

pushed John against the wall in the corridor. Students were busy shuffling by, crowding the hallway. No one was paying much attention to the two young boys but some nearer to them were casting anxious glances their way. Others had perked up in interest, eyeing them as they continued on their way, secretly hoping a fight would break out.

John leaned off the wall and dusted his sleeves. He slowly raised his head to his classmate and sighed. Ethan would never learn. "It's your own fault you got caught," he stated. The boy across from him turned red, this time, clearly from anger.

"You're a downright smartass, do you know that, Watson?" he growled as he lunged at the blond.

Activating his defense mechanism, John reached his arms out and the two began wrestling around on the floor. "You're dead!" Ethan cried as he swiped a punch at him. John turned his head and dodged it which caused his classmate's knuckles to ram into the floor where his head was moments before. A ring of students gathered around. Boys hollered, whooping and chanting, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" He heard a couple shouts of "C'mon, Watson, you can take on that scrawny bugger!" Ignoring them all, he threw a right hook which landed squarely on Ethan's jaw. He fell over to the side and off of John who scrambled up and off the floor, crouched with his hands held out in a combat stance.

"What in the world is going on!" a voice boomed down the hallway. All the students who had gathered didn't spare a second glance and scrambled away in fear they'd be caught and punished. The crowd dispersed and scattered in record time.

The headmaster got a clear view of the two boys and walked up to them. John was hovering over Ethan, hands poised to strike. "You two. My office. NOW," he barked and turned on his heel. John and Ethan, glaring at each other, followed the tall man's retreating back until they had reached the office. They sat down on the seats in front of his desk as Headmaster Welch shut the oak door and sat down on the chair behind the massive desk.

He sighed. "Watson, Echolson, you two have been in here entirely too many times. Granted, not together-that's a first-but nevertheless, I'd appreciate it if you two behaved like normal students! What happened? You, Echolson," he said as he pointed to the boy with a split lip, "explain."

"Well, sir," he began, "it all started in our history class when John began to bother me during the exam. I was telling him to be quiet and stop cheating when Mrs. Nollstein came up to me and thought that _I _was the one who was causing trouble. She almost gave me a failing mark! After class, I came up to Watson here and was trying to ask him not to do that again when he suddenly threw a punch! The atrocity of it all!" he cried as John stared at him in utter disbelief.

He turned to Ethan. "You _must _be joking, right?" He turned to the headmaster. "That is, in itself, an entirely and utterly false statement, sir. Echolson was trying to weasel answers from me when he got caught. Mrs. Nollstein let him off with a warning and he got mad he got caught so he harassed me after class and well, I admit we fought," he finished rather sheepishly.

The headmaster's hand was covering his eyes as he leaned over and fought off a migraine. Today was just not his day.

"Bottom line, you are both suspended for a day. Now get to class," he ordered tiredly as he called his secretary in. They needed to contact their parents and fill out some paperwork. John and Ethan brushed past each other as tension crackled in the air between them.

"You're dead, Watson," Ethan reiterated as John walked away, rolling his eyes.

* * *

"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing here? Get back to class this instant," Mycroft said tersely. His younger brother turned around to face his sharp-nosed brother.

"What are _you_ doing out here, Mycroft?" he asked. His brother shifted his eyes to the left.

"That's neither here nor there, Sherlock. Listen to your brother and get," he replied. The younger sibling scoffed.

"Judging by your reaction, you're skipping class, abusing your power as the well-loved Holmes model student. I can easily call Mrs. Fowler back. She's just around the corner down the hallway. Shall I?" he threatened.

Mycroft rolled up his sleeves. "Shh, shut it. Fine, you caught me. I'm going to get a bit of ice cream. Old Mr. Smith is dreadfully boring. I know you failed your test and left early," he said as he eyed his brother. "Let's get some ice cream," he urged as he walked down the hall towards the canteen (cafeteria). Sherlock, not really one for sweets, had a bit of a soft spot for ice cream (though he'd never admit it) and followed his brother as he always did in the past. It was a strange sight, the pair of them; the Holmes siblings were usually found bickering except for the rare instance where they actually got along.

"Is he going over the noble gases again?" he asked Mycroft who nodded.

"I'm about to graduate so I have no idea why he's going over such rudimentary material."

"Probably ran out of ideas. Plus the man is retiring. It's obvious he's decided that this will be his final year. The sloppiness. I've seen him around."

They turned the corner and entered the canteen, reaching the back where the ice cream machines were.

"Yes, quite. Your test, was it astronomy?" Mycroft asked his younger brother. He knew Sherlock absolutely loathed the subject and couldn't care less whether he passed or failed. He only cared about literature and actual science.

Sherlock nodded and his curls bounced up and down.

"Failed it. Answered one question. Well, two but odds are probably not in my favor."

The older Holmes gave him a stern look. "Sherlock, you better be keeping your grades up. God knows what mother would do if she found out _you_ failed something."

The younger Holmes rolled his eyes at the mention of their mother. "Doesn't matter," he said as he began filling a cone with chocolate ice cream. Mycroft opted for vanilla.

"I know you're going to skip the rest of the school day, Sherlock," his brother said nonchalantly. If it were anyone one else, they'd think it was rather eerie how he knew everything due to his keen ability to deduce everything. It was better than Sherlock's ability, but the boy was young and still had time to hone and develop his skills.

"So?"

"I'm going too. After this. I'm bored and Smith's room is stuffy. The day is almost over anyway," he answered.

They finished their ice cream in silence and left school together.

* * *

**A/N:**

Wow this update was long overdue. My apologies!

I've realized that my style changes when I shift from John to Sherlock.  
When I write about John, it's very action & thought out, but Sherlock's is short and concise; to the point.  
Much like their personalities. Haha

I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
